


Careless

by dontcareajot



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3626355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontcareajot/pseuds/dontcareajot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles, reformed criminal and former ne're-do-well, is persuaded to take a job protecting Alex, son and sole heir of a wealthy and powerful crime boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The room is dark but for the white light of the street lamp outside streaming in through the cracks in the blinds. A city this size is never silent. Outside there's the noise of tires on the road, the tapping of shoes down the sidewalk, the muffled yelling of two women, the distant sound of music overflowing from a pub. Inside the room there's the clock, tick-tocking endlessly. Miles is aware of all of it in his half-asleep state. He's been teetering on the brink of unconsciousness for hours but every time it seems like he might finally tip over the edge his own brain decides to thwart him by bringing up some memory, some errant, terrible thought. Some _what if_ or _if only I had..._

It's not always like this. Sometimes he slips easily into dreams. But when it hits him, it hits him hard. This is his third sleepless night in a row. And he'd been doing so well before this, too. He'd gotten so good at blocking out the bad things.

That really just sums up his entire life, though. Right when he thinks he has a handle on things, right when he thinks he's gotten out, or gotten better, something comes along to prove him wrong.

When the phone rings at six o'clock in the morning, Miles is still awake. He answers the call with dread knotting up his stomach, expecting the worst. His mum, maybe, calling all the way from the Wirral to let him know Dad's had a heart attack or something of that nature. What he's not expecting is the cold, monotone voice of a man who refuses to give his own name but claims to work for _Mr. Turner_ \- which is almost worse.

David Turner is, on the face of it, a well-known businessman- period. What the masses don't know is that he also runs a vast criminal empire, the reach of which can't be overestimated. But Miles knows. That's why, for once in his life, when he's told to shut up- he actually shuts up.

“Mr. Kane,” says the man, once Miles has stopped nervously yapping. “I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Turner with a job offer.”

Miles pulls his knees up to his chest. “What sort of job?” It's takes a concentrated effort to keep his voice as even and monotone as the man to whom he speaks, but he manages it. Slipping back into this role is sort of like putting on an old, ill-fitting coat.

“There have been... threats made, recently, against Mr. Turner's only son. As such, his son and sole heir requires protection. His previous bodyguard was deemed unfit for the job and thus a position has opened up. One that Mr. Turner believes you have the necessary skills and experience to fill.”

“I'm legit now,” Miles blurts, and it feels strange to be having this conversation while he's shivering under a bed sheet in just his skivvies. He feels like he ought to be in a suit, like the man on the phone can somehow tell he was woefully unprepared for this call.

“It's a legit job,” the man tells him, sounding on the verge of amusement. “You're only expected to guard him. With your life, if need be.”

Miles knows very little about David Turner's son, Alex. Only what he's read in the papers or seen on telly, which is a lot of celebrity bullshit. As far as he knows Alex isn't even involved in the shady side of his father's business dealings. The press make it seem like he does very little besides make appearances at parties, give drunken speeches, and take birds home. Still, Miles has worked hard to get himself away from the criminal element. Very hard. The idea of even skirting the edges of going back makes him understandably nervous.

“You'll be leading a small team,” the man continues. “And working in shifts, though you personally will be expected to oversee any formal gatherings Alex may be required to attend.”

Miles hesitates. Outside, a dog barks three times, loud enough that he's sure the receiver picks it up. “And if I say no?” he asks in the ensuing silence, idly wondering how many of his neighbors are overhearing this conversation through paper-thin walls.

There's an ominous pause, then, “You'll be generously compensated, should you choose to accept our offer.” The implication is clear.

Miles looks around his bedroom, which is the size of a storage closet. He sighs. “Alright. When do I start?”

-

The light is still early-morning gold when Miles steps into the flat. It struggles its way in through cracks in broken blinds, illuminating the dirty aftermath of a party the night before.

Now, everything is quiet, still. But judging solely by the number of red cups, half-finished beer bottles, overturned lamps, toppled pieces of furniture, slices of pizza on the floor, discarded articles of clothing, and suspicious new stains, Miles would guess it was a pretty good party. Well-attended, if nothing else, though the state of things would suggest everyone left in a hurry for some reason.

Miles has to clear a path for himself to get to the kitchen. He rights an armchair, nudges a misplaced beach ball out of the way, and picks a now cracked picture frame up off the floor. He pauses to study the picture- no one he knows, not that he expected it would be. A young boy and a woman, smiling and squinting against the sun.

He places the frame on an end table, next to a forgotten mobile phone.

He's not shocked to find the kitchen in much the same state. It looks like the scene of a food fight. There's a mysteriously sticky substance dripped across the counter that Miles pointedly avoids coming into contact with. The refrigerator door stands open. There's nothing inside it to rot, just a half-empty case of beer, some condiments, and, oddly, an ashtray, but Miles takes the liberty of closing it as he passes anyway.

The trail of mess continues into the hallway, where Miles finds a discarded bra on the floor and the remnants of a pastry. The bedroom door stands slightly ajar, a shoe wedged between it and the frame.

Miles suspects that's where he'll find what he's looking for, and he's proven right when he pushes the door noiselessly open and reveals his charge. The bloke looks like he was somehow discarded and tossed across the bed. His limbs are spread haphazardly, taking up more space than is strictly necessary. He's still dressed in last night's attire but considerably more worn.

The bedroom is, so far, the neatest room in the house, though even it didn't escape completely unscathed. There's a wet patch on the floor that Miles can only hope is alcohol and not piss, and more discarded cups. The blinds are drawn but some of the slats are bent. The effect is a smattering of strange patches of light, illuminating dust motes floating through the air.

Miles leans against the door frame and studies the young man on the bed. He's in a state of dishevelment. His hair's different than in the photo Miles was given. Shorter. Miles was expecting shoulder length curls framing a pretty face but what he sees instead is a fringed, fluffy mess. Still the same pretty face, though, even despite the circles under his eyes. Long, dark lashes lay fanned out against high, rosy cheekbones. The effect is artistic.

Miles only pauses to appreciate it for a moment before he shatters the silence with a single clap of his hands. “Rise and shine,” he chirps, raising his voice to what he'll admit is probably an unnecessary volume.

It has the intended effect. Alex jumps like he's been shocked, jolting into an upright position, doe eyes blinking in confusion. He looks at Miles and that confusion swiftly becomes disdain. “What the fuck?” he wonders. It comes out slurred with grogginess. He yawns into his fist.

“Good morning,” Miles greets him, keeping his high volume just to see the way Alex winces. He's hungover, no doubt. Miles probably shouldn't dance his way over to the window and raise the blinds but he does anyway. Alex squints against the sudden influx of sunlight. “Sleep well, princess?”

Alex doesn't answer. The way he looks at Miles then, wide-eyed and betrayed, has Miles taking pity on him. He lowers his voice.

“Put your shoes on, mate. There's pain killers in the car.”

Alex slides to the edge of the bed, where he props his elbows on his knees and drops his face into his hands. “Who the fuck _are_ you?” he asks from behind them. He adds, mostly to himself, “Fuck, me head's killing me.”

Miles almost feels bad for the yelling now. But only almost. This bloke got hammered with a bunch of his mates last night on expensive booze in a fucking townhouse while Miles ate cold, leftover pizza in his one bedroom flat. There's only so much sympathy Miles can dredge up for him. “Name's Miles.”

“What're you doing here, Miles? Party's over.”

“'m not here for the party. I'm the head of your new security.” He pauses, adds, “I'm gonna... guard you and shit.”

Alex stills. He peeks through his fingers at Miles. “What?”

Miles stands up straight. He adjusts his coat, feeling scrutinized. “I'm your new bodyguard.”

Alex drops his hands. “Shit,” he says. Then, “You? _Seriously_?”

Offended by his blatant disbelief, Miles scowls at him. “Yeah, mate. Seriously.”

Alex laughs, then. He scrubs a hand through his already-mussed hair. The rosiness is starting to fade from his cheeks, leaving him looking drawn and pale. “Me dad's not even trying now, is he? No offense, mate, but you're about as menacing as a twig. What're you gonna protect me from? Paper cuts and getting me feelings hurt?”

The first- and so far, only- thing Miles has learned about Alex is that he's got the arrogant, contemptuous sneer down pat. How he manages it when he's hungover and rumpled is a mystery. “Oi, your dad picked me for a reason, kidda. I'm more than just a pretty face.” He nods towards Alex's discarded shoes. He assumes they belong to Alex, anyway. “Now put your fucking shoes on. Clock's ticking.”

Alex reaches for the shoes but he seems in no hurry to follow orders. He watches Miles as he ties the laces, judging him, sizing him up. It makes Miles incredibly uncomfortable. “Why the rush?” he asks. He talks slow, too, every word carefully considered and then pronounced. Could be the hangover, could be his usual mode of operation. Miles isn't sure. Alex's file was sparse on details of that kind. “Got nowhere to be, have I?”

“We're moving you,” Miles informs him. He forces himself not to fidget. “The beach house is safer.”

“What's happened?”

“Nothing. Yet. There were some threats made. Your dad's just playing it safe, is all.”

Alex sighs. He stands, grabs his leather jacket from where it was half-hidden under the bed, and throws it on. “The bloody beach house. Great.” He fishes a cigarette out of a jacket pocket and places it between his lips. He searches for a lighter but comes up empty. Miles does the honors, producing one from his own pocket and holding the flame steady while Alex lights up.

“What's wrong with the beach house?” Miles wonders, flicking the lighter closed.

Alex closes his eyes as he takes his first drag, relishing it. Watching him makes Miles crave a cigarette, but he refrains. “Nothing, mate,” Alex tells him on the exhale. “'S just- nah, never mind. Can't complain.”

“Can we go, then? Car's running.”

Alex wordlessly pushes past him, deliberately knocking their shoulders together. Miles looks after him, seething. He wants to give Alex the benefit of the doubt. Surely he's more than the spoiled rich brat whose face is routinely plastered across the covers of gossip rags. Miles would guard him with his life either way, for what his dad is paying, but it'd be nice to look out for a decent human being for a change.

Miles pauses to take a deep, calming breath before he follows. By the time he reaches the kitchen, Alex has fished the ashtray out of the refrigerator. He holds it in one hand while the other roots about in the cupboards for breakfast. He has to go up on his tiptoes to reach the top ones.

“Not worried about the mess at all?” Miles asks, pulling a face at a puddle of red wine he's only just noticed working its way toward the carpet.

“Maids,” Alex says simply. He quickly gives up his search- the cupboards are empty. The entire place gives off a feeling of disuse aside from the evidence of the party. Like no one's properly lived there for ages. It's furnished, sure, but not personalized. It doesn't tell Miles anything about who Alex is. Maybe that was deliberate.

Before Miles can urge him on again, Alex finally makes his way toward the door. He leaves the ashtray, cigarette, and a folded hundred dollar bill on a table next to a vase of fake flowers that looks like it belongs in a hotel. Then he holds the door open for Miles, looking back at him expectantly. Protocol dictates that Miles go through first.

“Guess you're not exactly new to having a bodyguard or two, eh?” Miles asks as he passes, giving only a cursory glance to the surroundings outside. Truth be told, he hardly expects anyone to attack Alex. According to his father's emissary this is far from the first time such threats have been made but they've yet to be followed through on. Still, better safe than sorry.

“I've lost count,” Alex tells him. He squints against the sunlight as they walk side by side to the waiting car, Miles with a protective arm hovering around Alex but not daring to come into contact with him. “What about you? Am I your first?”

“Nah, mate. I'm well experienced, don't you worry,” Miles deadpans. Neither he nor Alex acknowledge the implications with so much as a knowing glance.

The waiting car is black, naturally, with windows tinted to the legal maximum. The car of a celebrity trying to travel incognito. Alex slides into the backseat with all the grace of a newborn giraffe- or a tired, barely awake twenty-something. Miles follows, suppressing a smile. “Smooth,” he says.

“Fuck off,” Alex grumbles, but there's no ire in it. If the lad can take a bit of teasing then they'll probably get along fine. Or so Miles hopes.

“Richard,” Alex says, nodding a hello at the grim-faced driver. He gets no response.

“So I'm not the only one he doesn't speak to, then,” Miles notes, feeling slightly vindicated. On the way over he'd done his damnedest to get the man to talk. Or even smile. He'd cracked jokes and rambled on until he was probably just annoying the man. Still not so much as an eye roll. Eventually Miles had been forced to give up.

“Richard's been me driver since I landed in the states,” Alex informs him. “He were hired for his... discretion. Or so I'm told.” Even this simple allusion to his family's more profitable but far less sanctioned affairs has him looking twitchy. He casts wondering eyes at Miles, perhaps trying to suss out with a glance how much he does or doesn't know.

Miles waves him off. “I know what I'm getting meself into, kidda.”

Alex turns his attention to California, flying past outside the window as Richard accelerates. “Oh,” he says quietly. “I highly doubt that.”

-

The beach house is immense and perfectly secluded, with a fence around the property and a gate that requires a code to open. It takes Miles at least fifteen minutes just to check the house and it's a good thing he made Alex wait in the car because Miles has trouble reigning in his awe. Every corner he rounds or door he opens reveals some new, outlandishly lavish feature or insanely expensive decoration. He gets the impression that it wasn't decorated strictly to taste, but more as a means of showing off. As if each statue, painting, and unnecessary feature were added based on price and little else.

Not to say it isn't beautiful. Garish in some instances but still lovely. Miles quickly decides the main room is his favorite. With it's dark wood floors, vaulted ceiling, wall-to-wall windows overlooking the ocean, marbled fireplace, and grand piano sitting stoically in the corner, it reeks of elegance. It begs to have a black tie dinner party thrown. The sort of party that Miles' ilk would never get invited to. The sort of party, in fact, that he'd likely be thrown out of.

Miles escorts Alex inside after he's cased the place. Alex, who seems completely indifferent to his presence and not at all rattled by the news that people have been threatening him. If anything, he's only slightly annoyed at the inconvenience. And determined to ignore Miles' presence- but that Miles is used to. The bodyguard never gets a lot of attention until something goes wrong. In fact, he's found that he's _expected_ to remain invisible most of the time. The only part of the job description he's ever been bad at.

Alex makes that aspect easier, though, by making it exceedingly difficult to strike up a conversation. Miles tries asking about his dad, if he comes round often, and gets a shrug in reply. Even inane questions about the weather fail to illicit anything beyond a mumbled, half-hearted response. Eventually Miles falls quiet but he does shadow Alex for a bit, watches as he fixes himself a bowl of cereal, looking very out of place in the vast kitchen amongst the professional grade appliances.

After that, however, Alex disappears into his room. Miles doesn't have to be told that he isn't allowed to follow. He doesn't want to _completely_ shatter the illusion of privacy for the lad, which is one reason they were forbidden from putting cameras in his room. But Miles does leave him with the order to keep the curtains drawn, which he's pretty sure earns him an eye roll but he's also pretty sure Alex will listen.

Miles spends a good portion of the rest of his shift being nosy. He further explores the house, all the while keeping an ear and eye out in case Alex reappears, and realizes on his second go-round that there's not a single family portrait to be had. Or any pictures of any of the Turner's, for that matter. It has the same unlived-in, impersonal feeling the townhouse had. Every movement seems to echo and serve as a reminder of just how empty the place is, and he finds himself wondering, did Alex grow up here? Or somewhere like here? He can't help but be curious, especially now that he's met the lad. He's hard to read, hard to pin down, and Miles wants to dig up all his secrets. It's largely nosiness, as is his custom, but part of it is self-preservation as well. He wants to know what to expect and he wants leverage.

Not that he'd phrase it that way to his employer.

Miles radios to the camera team, stationed some distance away, ever hour or so, just to verify that Alex is still locked away in his room. He remains there all day. It's tempting to think it might always be this easy but Miles knows better than to get his hopes up. It's _never_ this easy.

As the sun starts to set, Miles is drawn to the beach. It's been a while since he was last on a beach proper. A year, at least. But even then it was different. Crowded, public. Standing alone on a secluded, private beach, with just the noise of the wind and waves for company and the house far behind him, feels like being a world away. He wants to take his boots off, dig his toes into the sand, go for a swim, but all that's out of the question. He settles for tilting his face into the sun, soaking up the last of its warmth.

When he opens his eyes they land on a shed set at the edge of the property. Curiosity (and nosiness) again get the better of him. But when he reaches the shed he finds it locked. He makes a mental note to ask for the key- in case of an emergency, or some such. In the meantime he satisfies his curiosity with a peek into the dirty, high-set window. He's able to make out a boat, a jet ski, a volleyball, beach chairs, and little else. Everything is covered in a layer of undisturbed dust, like it hasn't been touched for years.

His radio crackles, breaking the silence. Then a voice comes through.

_He's moving._

Miles glances back toward the house. From this distance he can't make anything out, but as he draws nearer, wind tugging at his coat and ruffling his hair, he finds Alex waiting for him, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. He watches Miles approach with dark, wary eyes.

“I've just been for a walk,” Miles tells him, stopping a few feet in front of him when it becomes clear Alex doesn't intend to move out of the way and let him inside. He isn't sure why he feels the need to justify or explain himself but it slips out anyway, his excuse.

“Oh,” Alex says, barely audible. His eyes flick over Miles' face, then his body, until Miles is fighting the urge to fidget again. He isn't sure what Alex is looking for, or why. His expression gives nothing away. 

“Be careful,” Alex says, monotone, so that Miles can't tell if it's a warning or... something else.

“Always,” Miles says, dredging up a smile. Alex's eyes catch on his lips, then, before he tears them away and retreats into the house.

Miles doesn't see him again before he's handing guard duty (or babysitter duty, as he's come to privately think of it) over to Thomas, one of what Mr. Turner is referring to as his _team members_. Miles doesn't know anything about Thomas but with a look at him he can guess that Thomas is perhaps involved in some of the more sinister aspects of Mr. Turner's dealings. But he smiles when Miles greets him so maybe he's not all bad.

Returning to his own flat after a day spent living in luxury just makes it seem all the more dismal. This has never been home to Miles, never _could_ be, so there's no comfort in staying here. It feels like he doesn't even belong. The place makes his skin crawl.

But he tries to make do. He's got a roof over his head and a place to rest his weary bones, after all, which is more than some people could say.

He skips dinner in favor of having a beer and watching telly but it's not long before his sleepless nights catch up to him and he's dozing off on the settee, snapshots of his day swimming around behind his eyelids.

He's dreaming of Alex when his mobile rings. He doesn't remember the specifics, they evaporate as soon as his eyes are open, but it was definitely about Alex, and whatever the contents of the dream, they've served to instill him with an apprehensive feeling. A feeling of dread.

It's a feeling that only get worse when he sees the caller ID. It's Thomas.

“'lo?” Miles answers, willing the sleep from his voice.

“He's gone,” Thomas says.

Miles sits up. “You're sure?”

“Yeah.”

Miles glances at the clock. It's nearing half past twelve. Early yet, for a purported night owl like Alex. “I'll find him,” Miles promises.

“Let's hope so,” Thomas snorts. “And let's hope you find him before someone else does, as well.”

It's the first time he's heard anyone treat the threats made seriously. It spurs him into action. He ends the call, tugs on his boots, and grabs his keys.

He knows exactly where to start looking.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes three tries before Miles finds Alex. Three clubs. One seedy, one upscale, one swarming with paparazzi. That's how he knows he's at the right place. They hover impatiently around the entrance like flies around dung, cameras held at the ready. As Miles shoves and elbows his way through them he inevitably catches their attention- but he doesn't hold it for long. All it takes it one look for them to decide he's a nobody. Which is fine by him, he's more than happy flying under the radar.

It does give him trouble at the door, however. The bouncer bars his way, both eyebrows raised, silently asking, _why should I let you in?_

Miles' fingers twitch toward his gun, hidden underneath his coat. Intimidation has always gotten him his way before. But he's too aware of the paparazzi. The last thing he needs to do is start any troubling rumors.

Instead, he leans forward and lowers his voice. “I'm here on behalf of Mr. Turner.” He never thought to utter those words and have them be true. Years ago he'd have said them with some measure of pride. Now they leave him feeling slimy.

The bouncer looks skeptical. “Proof?”

“I haven't got any proof, mate, but do you really want to risk it?”

The bouncer takes his point. If it's a choice between potentially pissing off his boss and potentially pissing off David Turner- well, then, it's not really a choice. He steps aside. When the door opens the paparazzi rush forward and the clicking of cameras becomes deafening, all of them trying to snap photos of whatever or whoever lies inside. Miles is almost glad when the door closes behind him and the sound of cameras gives way to thumping bass and indistinct conversation.

This isn't the sort of club Miles ever frequented, even when he did have money to waste- give him a quiet pub or a live act any day. He likes a dance now and again but not, usually, in this setting. He can't help but feel that he sticks out like a sore thumb. That feeling isn't helped by the curious and judgmental raised eyebrows people keep sending his way.

The club is big, overly-crowded, and there are plenty of shadowy corners where Alex could be hiding. Miles doesn't even attempt a pretense. He catches a passing bloke by his wrist, stilling him.

“I'm looking for Turner,” Miles says, having to yell to be heard over the music and even then relying mostly on the other bloke to read his lips. “Seen him?”

For his trouble, Miles gets a disgusted look. The bloke yanks his wrist away and beats a hasty exit without replying.

Miles grudgingly works his way further in, weaving deftly through the crowd. He keeps his eyes on the perimeter, on the tables, doubtful that Alex might be found on the dance floor, which is a swirl of lights, color, and flailing limbs. The place smells of sweat and alcohol and the longer Miles is there the more eager he becomes to leave. But his searching is only rewarded after nearly half an hour, when he finally finds Alex, sat alone at a table with his head down.

It's so shocking to Miles to find him that way, looking utterly dejected, that it brings him up short. It's a far cry from what he had pictured. His anger withers, but doesn't die. He slides into the booth across the table from him and waits.

“That was quick,” Alex says without raising his head. It sounds like a complaint. He's slurring a bit.

“How much have you had?” Miles wonders, eying the bottle in front of him that he's evidently just emptied.

“Not enough.”

“You know, you can get drunk alone at home, as well. Didn't have to come all the way out here to do it.”

Alex does look at him then. Glares at him. It's not at threatening as he probably means it to be. He looks more tired than anything. There's a flush to his cheeks and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Fuck off,” he snaps. “Me mates, they-”

“Save it,” Miles interrupts. “We need to get you out of here, yeah? Discreetly.”

Alex hesitates, then nods. “There's an exit round back.”

Yet another surprise- Miles wasn't expecting his cooperation. “Good. Lead the way.”

Alex stands, sways on his feet. Miles steadies him with a hand on his shoulder but Alex is quick to shrug him off. They garner a couple of strange looks but for the most part they're ignored. A far cry from the scrutiny Miles was given on his own. It feels intentional, as if people are afraid to look their way, to catch Alex's attention. It's not as ridiculous a notion as Miles wishes it was. Alex may not be the head of his family yet but his orders are carried out all the same. One wrong word to his Father and...

It doesn't bear thinking about. If Miles is too cowed by Alex's influence, too intimidated to risk pissing him off, then he won't be able to do his job. Better to treat him as any other client and potentially save his life. If he gets hurt- or worse- then Miles can _definitely_ kiss his own life goodbye.

A silence falls over them like a blanket, thick and heavy, once they're safely in the car. Alex stares alternately at his own hands or at the passing scenery. Street lamps intermittently illuminate him when they pass, before fading away behind them and leaving him in shadow again. The further away from the city they get, the less frequent the lights become. Miles traces his profile with his eyes, thinking.

“You can't do that again, Alex,” he says finally, voice low.

Alex doesn't so much as twitch to indicate that he heard.

“I'm trying to protect you, mate, but I can't do that if you're running off on your own the second I turn me back.”

“I had to get out,” Alex mumbles, only barely audible over the sound of the tires on the road. “For a bit. Had to.”

“Why?”

There's a lengthy pause. Alex fidgets with his sleeves. “I don't like him,” he says eventually. Miles isn't sure if it's an answer or a change of subject.

“Who?”

“Thomas.”

“Your dad trusts him.”

“He shouldn't.”

“Alright... I'll have a word.”

Alex nods, satisfied. Miles wants to press for more information but he can sense that he wouldn't get any. Alex doesn't seem much in the mood for talking. He hadn't yesterday, either. He'd always seemed quite the life of the party in the press. Miles knows better than to believe everything he reads but even he'd bought into that persona a little bit. Seems it was, if not entirely fabricated, then at least exaggerated.

Just as Miles is settling into the silence, Alex breaks it again. “How'd you find me so fast?”

Miles aims a smile at him. “Part lucky guess, part research. There were a list of your favorite clubs up online and I just had a hunch you'd be at one of 'em.”

Alex nearly smiles back at him. “Duly noted. So I'll be more creative next time.”

“Aye. If I could find you, so could anyone else, you know.”

“Point taken.” He closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the seat. “I figured it'd be Thomas to come after me. Didn't think you'd do it yourself,” he says.

“It's not Thomas who'll get the ax if summat happens to you. And he bloody well knows it, too.” This last part is grumbled through gritted teeth. Miles will _definitely_ be having a word or two with Thomas. Alex's warning, if it could be called that, only makes the matter more pressing.

He gets his chance sooner than expected. When they reach the house Thomas is there to greet them at the door. He claps Alex on the shoulder as he passes, says, “Glad you're still alive, kid,” but his smile is sharp, free of relief. Alex doesn't acknowledge him. He trots past, disappears up the stairs, presumably to his room. Miles watches his ascent, praying he doesn't stumble. Once he's gone he rounds on Thomas, who folds his arms over his chest and keeps smiling.

“How'd he get out?” Miles asks, keeping his tone light.

Thomas shrugs. “Window, maybe? Camera's didn't see him.” Thomas is older, has even got a bit of gray in his beard, but his age and apparent experience just serve to make his undeserved smugness all the more intolerable.

“Guess it doesn't matter how,” Miles concedes, rather than pointing out the unlikeliness of his suggestion. “Point is, he got away from us. I don't think Alex is daft enough to tell his father he tried to ditch us, I trust I can count on you to keep quiet as well?”

“Sure.” He's still smirking.

“Good.” Miles casts one more look over his shoulder, checking that Alex is out of earshot. “And now that's settled,” he continues. “Let's just make something clear, eh?”

Miles is aware that he's not the most intimidating bloke around without the use of a weapon. Not in build, not in character. But he's got a reputation to lean on if nothing else, and he prays it comes to his aid now as he says, tone devoid of laughter, “If any harm comes to him while you're on duty, it won't be Mr. Turner you've got to worry about. I'll kill you myself.” Then, he smiles, his brightest grin. “Understood?”

Thomas keeps his expression carefully neutral but when he unfolds his arms Miles can see that his hands are shaking. “Understood,” he mutters.

“Alright. From now on I'm taking the night shift. You and Michael can split days.” Miles waves him away, deliberately dismissive. “You're free to go.”

He doesn't wait to see Thomas out. Instead he turns on his heel and lopes up the stairs after Alex, trusting that Thomas can find his way.

The first thing Miles notices when he pushes open the door to Alex's room is that it's easily twice the size of his entire flat, maybe even more than that. It seems more suited to royalty than anything else, with it's elegant crown molding, plush carpet, undoubtedly hand-made rug, sprawling four-poster bed, and various decorative pieces. Everything is done up in light colors- blues and yellows and whites. One wall is dominated by french doors that presumably open up onto a balcony. The windows are draped with sheer ivory curtains, but blinds with wooden slats provide some privacy.

It's all very pretty, very airy and open and not at all what Miles would've pictured for the heir of David Turner. He opens his mouth to say so but stops short when his eyes land on Alex. Alex, who has his back turned and hasn't yet noticed Miles in the doorway. Alex, who's shed his shirt and seems preoccupied with jotting something down, half bent over a desk, bracing himself with one arm and writing with the other.

Miles closes his mouth. He studies the line of Alex's shoulders, the subtle curve of his waist, the shifting muscles in his arms. He's all pale, smooth skin excepting the scars. There are two of them that Miles can see, one near his hip that looks like the result of a gunshot wound and another that curves from his shoulder toward his spine. They're both pale, faded, clearly old, but they still stand out against an otherwise unmarred expanse of skin. Miles has the strangest urge to touch them, to run his fingertips over them. To ask for the stories behind them.

Maybe Miles makes a sound or maybe Alex can just feel his gaze on him but something alerts him to Miles' presence and he turns. Miles tears his gaze away but not, he's sure, quick enough.

“Er,” he says, now studying the carpet. “I were just coming up to tell you it'll be me on nights now, so-”

“What, don't trust me?” Alex interrupts.

“Course not,” Miles quips, quickly regaining his footing. He just catches the tail end of a smirk disappearing from Alex's lips.

“Fair enough. But it won't happen again, mate. Swear on me mum's grave.”

“Again,” Miles says, raising a finger. “Don't trust you.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright.” He leans against the desk behind him, crosses his arms over his chest. Miles' eye is drawn to again to his hip, where a scar matching the one on his back sits, lending credence to his theory that it's the work of a gunshot. But this time he's very quick indeed to look elsewhere. “Look, I know it were daft, but I just-” Alex waves a hand, as if Miles is just supposed to figure out the rest. He's still slurring his words. 

“Just get to bed, eh?” Miles prompts, amused.

Alex gives him a shrug that he supposes he's meant to take for agreement. Miles leaves him to it. He shuts Alex's door behind him, leans heavily against it, and curses emphatically under his breath. “ _Shit_.”

He's not blind. Obviously he's aware, has _been_ aware, that Alex is attractive. He just hadn't ever meant to let on that he thinks so. Not just because Alex is both a dangerous man and Miles' current charge. The fact of the matter is there are people- even people Miles would call _friends_ \- who'd kill him as soon as look at him if they knew he was eying blokes the same way they would eye birds. It's a secret he's held close to his chest all his life, never once has he told anyone that mattered, and now he might've just blown his cover to the last person on Earth who needs to know.

Miles takes a deep breath. He pushes off the door and heads for the living room downstairs, where he'll spend the rest of the evening trying to stay awake. He keeps telling himself that his little slip up wasn't that bad, that perhaps it even went unnoticed. Or that maybe Alex chalked it up to interest in his scars alone. Or even that he'll forget about it completely, thanks to the drink.

He wills himself not to overreact but his heart still flutters nervously in his chest. He makes a mental note to get himself laid before this thing with Alex becomes a problem.

-

Miles dreams of a ringing telephone but this time there isn't one. This time, he wakes to the usual low murmur of other people in the complex going about their daily lives. The loud, unnecessary stomping in the hall, the distant yelling, the slamming doors.

The first thing he does is roll over and check his phone. No missed calls, no texts. It's comforting, that.

He showers, dresses, and eats quickly but the sun is already starting to set by the time he reaches the beach house and Michael, the third so-called team member and the youngest of them all, is waiting impatiently inside. He leaves without a word but his irritated expression says enough- it says, _you're late_ , which is true but Miles certainly didn't _intend_ to sleep all day or he'd have set an alarm. Probably not worth arguing, though.

He finds Alex in the main room, perched at the piano, running his fingertips absently over the keys but not pressing down. Not until Miles speaks, anyway. Then Alex jumps, turns, the piano makes a little startled _clang_ sound and Alex takes his hands off the keys like they've just burned him.

“Didn't hear you come in,” he says after the noise of the piano has faded. Behind him, through the wide, cover-less windows, Miles can see the sun starting to sink below the horizon, turning the waves orange and pink.

“Do you play?” Miles asks him, nodding at the piano.

Alex shakes his head. “A little. A very little.”

Miles ventures further into the room and takes a seat beside Alex uninvited. But Alex doesn't seem bothered. He makes room and even smiles when Miles plays a halting rendition of Mary had a Little Lamb. “As you can see,” Miles says seriously. “I'm a prodigy.”

Alex's smile is enchanting. It crinkles up the corners of his eyes and brightens the room. Miles tries not to notice.

“Oh, clearly,” Alex agrees, playing along. His hair is still damp from a shower. It's curling behind his ears. He ducks his head, presses lightly down on middle C, and his smile abruptly turns wistful. “But no one were as good as me mum, you know. She were bloody brilliant.”

“This was hers?” Miles guesses.

Alex pats the piano fondly. “Yeah. She'd sit right here and play almost every night. She loved watching the sun set...” He trails off, remembering.

“She never taught you?”

Alex comes back to present day with a shrug. “Nah. It weren't practical. I've no use for it.”

Miles tilts a brow at him. “Your words or your dad's?”

Alex scoffs and doesn't answer the question.

Whatever happened to Penny Turner has always been a mystery. There are a thousand different theories and even, probably, a betting pool. Miles is tempted to ask, to press for even just a little bit of info, but this is the first time Alex has ever said anything of merit to him. He'd hate to make him regret it by trying to take advantage.

So he holds his tongue on the matter. Instead, he draws Alex away from the subject, says, “Listen, Alex, about last night-”

Alex cringes. “Yeah, alright, I left and I shouldn't have done, I know.”

“So why did you?”

Alex sighs, runs a hand through his hair, fluffing it up. “I dunno. I just- I don't like the idea of being a fucking prisoner.”

Miles opens his mouth, closes it again as he reconsiders what he wants to say. He can't argue the point. Instead, he tries, “It's for your own good. And it's only temporary, la.”

“It's never temporary. There's always someone keeping tabs on me- if not you then some other bloke. Keeping me in line, making sure I'm doing what's fucking _expected of me_.” He closes the lid of the piano with a snap, nearly catching Miles' fingers. If he notices he doesn't apologize. “ _You're_ temporary, mate. That's all.”

Again, Miles can't argue the point. “There are worse places to be imprisoned, eh?”

Alex's scowl lightens when Miles doesn't respond to his anger. He shrugs. “Suppose so.”

Miles sighs. “I'm not meant to be a bloody jailer. I'm just trying to protect you,” he says gently.

“Cause you're getting paid to care.” Alex ducks his head again, so his hair obscures his face. “Whatever. I told you last night, it won't happen again. No worries.” He gets to his feet. “I'm going for a walk,” he mutters. “I'll stay on the property.”

Miles waits until the door has closed behind him to radio the camera team. “Stay on him,” he instructs, feeling an awful lot like a jailer after all. “Let me know if he strays out of bounds. I'd rather not take any chances.”

He wants to trust Alex, he really does, but it'd be foolish to let his guard down just because of a flimsy promise. Only time will tell if Alex is a man of his word.


	3. Chapter 3

When Miles arrives at the beach house for the fifth night in a row, he expects it to be another dull one. A pattern is already starting to emerge. He arrives, Alex kindly greets him, then disappears- usually into his own room, probably seeking sanctuary from the watchful eyes of the cameras, but occasionally into the study or the music room- and Miles is left to his own devices. He passes time watching telly or reading or going for a jog, only occasionally checking in on Alex and even then not disturbing him. He either gets updates from the camera team or only passes by his door, listening for movement inside. This behavior doesn't stem from a desire to make less of a nuisance of himself, but rather from the idea that his conversation and intrusions aren't wanted. Miles' curiosity about Alex is unending but it seems clear that Alex isn't looking to make friends. Which is, Miles has to admit, quite smart. Experience has taught him that getting attached is _always_ a bad idea.

He expects more of the same on the fifth night and, at first, it goes according to routine. Alex is just finishing dinner when Miles arrives. Alex acknowledges him with a nod, which Miles returns. No words pass between them, Miles being secretly determined not to be the first to speak. Once done, Alex disappears up the stairs as per usual, this time into his room.

But later, after night has fully fallen, during one of Miles' many wanderings up and down the halls, he passes by the study and, for once, the door stands open. The first thing that catches Miles' attention is the music. There's a record on in the corner, something that Miles doesn't recognize, playing so low it can only barely be made out. Then there's Alex, pacing behind the ornate wooden desk, speaking quickly to someone on the phone. Miles lingers in the doorway, watching him, and can just make out the words _deal_ and father says before Alex abruptly ends the call with a noise of frustration.

Once again Miles does nothing to draw attention to himself but Alex senses him there and turns. “Oh,” he says. He glances down at his mobile like he's wondering what Miles overheard.

Miles lets him wonder. “Isn't it past your bed time?” he asks with a smirk, coming further into the room. This room feels stuffier than the rest of the house, more closed up. There are no windows. Instead, the walls are lined with bookshelves. Alex has a few volumes out on the desk in front of him.

“It's only two,” he says with a glance at the clock. “'S early, yet.”

Miles concedes with a shrug. For he and Alex (who, Miles has noticed, keeps nearly the same schedule as he does, both of them staying up all night and sleeping all day) two o'clock _is_ early.

Encouraged by the fact that Alex hasn't asked him to leave yet, or left himself, Miles gestures at the open books. “Mind if I ask what you're reading?”

Alex moves his hand over a title, like he means to hide it, then thinks better of it and instead picks it up. “Nothing,” he says firmly as he turns to place it back on the shelf. Then he grabs the next and does the same with it, stretching up his arms to reach, letting his top ride up to reveal hipbones and stomach.

Miles closes his eyes and when he opens them Alex is watching him curiously. Miles smiles at him. “Fine, I won't pry,” he says. “Keep your secrets.” He turns to go but- and this is the surprising bit- Alex stops him.

“Wait,” he says, pausing with the last book in his hand. Evidently Miles has made him feel guilty without meaning to because he admits quietly, like he expects a rebuke, “It's, er... Just poetry, if you must know.” He slides the last book into it's slot on the shelf and doesn't meet Miles' eye.

“Your father reads poetry?” It's obvious to Miles that this is David Turner's study, not Alex's, which begs the question what the books are doing there. From what Miles knows of him it seems unlikely he's much into poetry.

His suspicions are confirmed when Alex shakes his head. “Er, no. They were-”

“Your mum's?”

“...Right. These are just the ones she brought with her. She had enough to fill a library back home.”

Miles hums. “Home, eh? And where might that've been? Up north, I'm guessing?”

“Aye,” Alex confirms. “Don't suppose that's any big secret. And you?”

Miles snorts. “Guess.”

Alex grins, a flash of teeth. “Liverpool or thereabouts,” he declares, confident in his answer. “You're a bloody scouser if I've ever heard one.”

“Guilty.”

There's a lull in conversation. Just as Miles is about to excuse himself, Alex stops him for a second time. “Do you fancy a drink, Miles?” he asks. He looks almost hopeful as he gestures at the sideboard, stocked with whiskey and brandy and wine.

“Course,” Miles says, but quickly adds, “Have to abstain on duty, though, you know. Can't aim for shit when I'm pissed.”

Alex doesn't look bothered. “How about a cuppa, then?”

“Planning to poison me, are you?” Miles teases- and it is just that, teasing, but he can see right away that Alex takes it seriously.

His brow furrows and, for a flash, he looks offended. Then his expression clears. “I wouldn't-” he begins, but Miles cuts across him.

“Only joking, mate. I'm sure if you wanted me dead there's better ways to do it.” He turns on his heel and heads for the kitchen, expecting Alex to follow, which he does. “Do you even know _how_ to make a cup of tea?” he asks once Alex is beside him. “Did you ever have to do it for yourself before?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “I can manage,” he says dryly, evidently picking up on Miles' teasing tone this time.

They wind up in the den on the settee, tea cups in hand. At first they talk, Miles making a concentrated effort to keep things light. To keep Alex away from his past and to return the favor. That means that they mostly talk about nonsense, about whatever daft thing comes into Miles' head, but Alex doesn't seem to mind. He smiles openly and often, and Miles even gets him to laugh more than once, which he counts as a personal victory.

Miles wants to ask about Alex's sudden change of heart but he bites his tongue. Doesn't want to spoil it by drawing attention.

Eventually they switch on the telly and, not long later, Miles can feel Alex drifting. It's nearly five in the morning by the time he falls asleep, head pillowed on the arm rest and feet drawn up onto the settee. Miles has half a mind to curl up at the opposite end and follow his example. Instead, he stifles a yawn and rises. He's careful not to wake Alex, who looks so peaceful in sleep.

He exits the house through the sliding door at the rear, plants himself in a chair and props his feet up on the patio table. He breathes in the ocean air and watches the sun rise, careful not to let his thoughts stray. Because lately they always seem to stray to Alex.

-

Miles' mobile rings just as he's walking through the door of his flat. He throws his bag, containing a change of clothes, food, ammo, a knife, a phone charger and his wallet down onto the kitchen table and answers with a weary, “Hullo?”

It's a woman this time. American. Miles has yet to speak to the same person twice. “Hello, Mr. Kane,” she says pleasantly. “Just calling to remind you about the award's show tomorrow. Alex will be expected to attend, as he's presenting.”

Miles collapses onto the settee with a sigh. “I'd forgotten,” he admits. It shouldn't come as any surprise, really. They'd given him Alex's itinerary verbally, refused to send a physical copy lest someone else should get their hands on it. For all that they're trusting him with Alex's life, they don't actually seem to _trust him_ at all.

“The original plan,” she says, still sounding overly cheery. “Was for Alex to arrive early with the rest of the presenters, but we've arranged things so that he won't have to arrive until it's time to walk the red carpet. We'll be sending people around to the house to get him ready beforehand. They're trustworthy, of course, but we still ask that you keep a close eye on them.”

“Understood.”

“Good,” she chirps, and Miles can sense that she's about to end the call.

“Wait,” he says. “Er, I were just wondering, have there been any more threats? Have you found out who's been sending them?”

There's silence, and at first Miles think she's already hung up, but then she says abruptly, “We're working on it,” and there's the unmistakeable click of a phone being placed on the receiver. 

Miles throws his own phone aside, irritated.

His flat stands empty and silent and he has the sudden urge to talk to his mum. Instead, he falls into bed still fully dressed and tries in vain to sleep.

-

“You alright?”

Miles looks up, startled out of his thoughts. Alex is watching him in the mirror. There are two stylists buzzing about him, a young man and a young woman, and though they chat easily and openly with each other, neither of them has said a word to Alex, and they fall instantly silent when he speaks.

Miles uncrosses his legs and stretches them out in front of him. He feels stiff, he's been sitting for so long. “Fine,” he says, dismissive, but Alex quirks an eyebrow at him, so he adds, “Just tired.”

Alex looks skeptical. It's the truth- Miles is exhausted. He had another sleepless night. But, more than that, he's feeling anxious. This is a big event they're going to, there's no way Miles will be able to watch everyone. And he certainly won't be allowed up on stage with Alex while he's presenting the award. Of course, the event will have it's own security, with so many high-profile stars in attendance, but it still makes him twitchy.

“Are you nervous about being on telly?” Alex guesses.

“I- what?” That hadn't even occurred to Miles. “Telly?”

Alex gives him a funny look. “Yeah? Of course. It's broadcast, you know. And you're my plus one. Did you think I were going to make you wait outside or summat?”

“Well, no... Shit.”

“So you _are_ nervous,” Alex declares, like he's proud of himself for getting it right.

“I think it's daft we're going at all,” Miles grumbles. “Daft and dangerous. Why're you even invited? You've never been in a bloody movie.”

“It's not just movie stars,” Alex defends. “There's models and the like there as well.”

“And famous heirs?”

Alex smirks, adjusts his tie, and doesn't answer.

To Miles' surprise, the stylists try to start in on him next, but he refuses to let them come near him. He's in a suit already, he'll blend in well enough. Or so he hopes. He doesn't need anyone taking too much notice of him. He's already worried about people knowing he's in league with the Turner's.

He's thinking out loud on the ride over when he says, “Probably should've sent Michael or someone instead.”

Alex is sat across from him in the limo, slumped down and already looking more rumpled than when the stylists finished with him. He's got a half-drunk champagne glass in his hand. Miles can feel Alex watching him over the rim, eyes burning holes into his skin, but, for his part, Miles has been trying to avoid looking at Alex. It's easier that way. Easier than noticing how bloody good he looks in a suit. His legs look long and lean and his bum looks sinful in the tailored trousers. He's left an undoubtedly strategic number of buttons undone on his top. Just enough that, every time Miles looks at him, he's overcome with the desire to kiss his way down Alex's neck, across his collarbones, down his chest. And the way he's sitting now, loose-limbed and legs parted, it would be so easy to-

“Why's that?” Alex wonders. Miles is thankful for the interruption of his train of thought.

“Er,” he says, at first struggling to remember what he'd even said. Then it comes back to him. “I just don't need anyone seeing this on telly and thinking I'm back in, is all.”

“Back in?”

“Yeah. They see me hanging around with you lot, the wrong people might think I'm up for hire again.” He adds, for clarity's sake, “I'm not.”

Alex hums. When Miles dares a glance at him, his expression is unreadable. “I'd rather you than Michael,” is all he says.

They arrive to a flurry of paparazzi and journalists, a few of which Alex is obliged to stop and speak with. Miles lingers as far behind as he dare, on edge and poised for trouble until they're safely seated in the auditorium. Even then he finds it hard to relax and he looks more at the gathered crowd than at whoever is on stage. Every loud noise has him jumping until eventually Alex places a hand on his shoulder and says with an understanding smile, “Relax, mate.” And, strangely, it helps.

A number of people approach Alex to say their hello's and make polite conversation. Miles get the sense throughout that Alex is hiding poorly veiled contempt for all of them until he's approached by a petite blonde and some genuine joy shows through. She actually manages to coax him into a hug.

“Miles, this is Katie,” Alex says, gesturing between them. “She and Jamie are family friends.” He doesn't give Miles a chance to greet her, though. Instead he immediately asks, “Where is Cookie, anyway?” He peeks around the room like he expects the man to materialize out of thin air.

“Backstage. He'll watch from the sidelines while we present.”

Alex's smile only widens. “Perfect,” he declares, and Miles very much gets the sense that he's missing something. He has to remind himself that he's only the bodyguard and that it's not his place to pry, however much he might want to. 

Miles' nerves kick back up when Alex and Katie are called backstage to get ready to present their award. He expects something, _anything_ , to go wrong- but nothing does. The two of them are introduced, they file out onto the stage, they read the teleprompter flawlessly (though, in Alex's case, somewhat woodenly), and trot off again without any hassle.

But then the minutes sail by and Alex doesn't rejoin Miles at their table. Five minutes turns into ten and then twenty and then, finally, thirty. Miles tries his mobile but it goes straight to voicemail. It's only as he's about to get up and start searching, whether he knows his way around the place or not, that Alex finally returns.

“Where've you been?” Miles demands to know, but as he looks at him he realizes he needn't ask. It's obvious what he's been up to. His hair is mussed, his cheeks are flushed, and his lips are pink. Bitten or kissed raw. And if that weren't enough, his smirk tells the rest of the story.

“Simmer down,” he says. “I were perfectly safe.”

“Where- who-?” Miles stammers, but then his eyes fall on Katie, walking back to her own table. “Ah. I see.”

“Do you?” Alex asks. He sounds amused.

“This is hardly the place for that sort of thing,” Miles admonishes. He feels like a mum. But, more than that, he feels... stung. He'd rather not think about why.

“You'd be surprised,” Alex says. “Besides, where else? Wherever I go, I'm being watched. What's it matter?”

“I didn't know where you were,” Miles snaps. “And turn your fucking phone on! Worse than a child, you are. Christ.”

Alex shakes his head but otherwise ignores him, which makes Miles feel even _more_ like a nagging mum. It's not a feeling he enjoys.

They leave early to get ahead of everyone. Silence reigns supreme in the car. Alex watches him again, gaze thoughtful, and Miles stares resolutely out the window. There are a million things he'd like to say but he's sure Alex can guess them all, as they're all essentially some variation of a frustrated tirade. It would do no good to put voice to them and Miles knows it.

They stomp their way up the steps of the front porch in tandem but before Miles can pull open the front door, Alex stops him with a hand on his arm. He's already got a cigarette between his own lips and he wordlessly offers one to Miles, who take it without hesitation. He feels he's earned it.

Alex takes a seat on the steps and looks up at Miles like he expects him to follow. So he does. Alex rewards him by lighting his cigarette. They smoke in silence, at first, basking in the light of the moon. Watching as the smoke curls up into the night sky.

Then Alex says, “I won't apologize.”

Miles' anger has cooled now and he nods. He's starting to realize that it'll be impossible to completely reign him in. “Alright. Next time just... tell me where you are, eh? That's all I ask. A text would do.”

“I might can manage that.” One corner of his mouth lifts up in a smile. “You worry too much, mate.”

Miles privately thinks he doesn't worry enough, but he doesn't much feel like arguing.

There's a light breeze that ruffles their hair but it's still warm out. Verging on too warm, which is probably what prompts Alex to take off his jacket. The movement catches Miles' attention and he looks over- and almost immediately spots the hickey left low on Alex's neck, made black by the light of the moon. It shouldn't be shocking but it freezes him in place.

Then he drops his head into his hands, scrubs at his eyes. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, because he knows that feeling trying to crawl it's way into his head. That's jealousy. And he's got no right. Even entertaining the idea would be suicide.

But he can't stifle it completely.

He catches Alex looking at him with a crease between his brows, startled at his outburst, but he ignores him. He stubs out his cigarette and, before any questions can be asked, he retreats into the house, lets the door slam shut behind him. Alex takes the hint and doesn't follow.

_I'm just tired_ , he tells himself, even though that's a poor explanation. Still, he clings to the excuse.

And, just to be safe, he avoids Alex for the rest of the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Her hair was blonde. Strands of it stuck stubbornly to her cheeks and across her forehead. Her eyes were wild, afraid. She was bleeding. From her temple, her nose, her lip, all of it running down her face and collecting on her chin, then dripping onto her once-pristine blouse. She was beautiful underneath all that blood and all those bruises but you could hardly tell it now. Miles only knew because he'd seen her before.

It was the begging, though, that really stuck with him. He could always hear it so clearly, like she was whispering it straight into his ear, voice hoarse and trembling. Her hands were bound and her legs were useless but she wasn't gagged. Maybe the others thought it was funny. Miles just thought it was sad.

She's the most frequent subject of Miles' troubled dreams, but the dreams always end when he raises the gun, like even his subconscious is afraid to relive the moment he pulled the trigger. It still rattles him all the same, though, so that he wakes up in a cold sweat, afraid to sleep again.

It's after one such dream that he shows up early for his shift, eager to be out of his flat and, it must be said, eager to see Alex, a living reminder that what he's doing now is decent work. A far cry from his old life, anyway. Now Miles has taken it upon himself to keep people alive, instead of...

“Oi. Alright, Miles?”

Miles blinks, bringing Alex into focus. “Didn't hear you come in,” he mumbles. He looks at the cigarette in his hand and realizes he's let it burn almost down to the filter without taking a drag. He stubs it out in the ash tray, irritated. “What do you want?”

Alex frowns. “Are you angry with me?”

“What? No.”

Alex sits gingerly beside him on the settee, like he's not sure whether he should or not. The TV plays on in the background, muted and unnoticed but casting light around the otherwise dimly lit room. Outside the moon is high in the sky. Other than a curious glance and a stilted hello when Miles first turned up, this is the first time Alex has spoken to him today. “You've been weird,” Alex points out. “And last night, that little outburst-”

“How would you know I've been weird? Maybe I'm always like this.”

“You've been weird,” Alex insists. “And spacey. Do you know I called your name three times before you answered just now? Something's wrong, I'm not daft.”

“You're one to talk about spacey,” Miles grumbles.

“Fine, don't tell me. But it's not about last night, right? 'Cause I told you, I were perfectly safe-”

“It's not about last night. And I'm not angry,” Miles assures him. He sighs, scrubs a hand across his tired eyes. “I'm just...” He gestures and hopes that it conveys enough meaning.

Maybe Alex gets it or maybe he doesn't. Either way he, thankfully, lets it go. Instead of further questions he passes over the magazine he'd had clutched in his hand, studies his nails as Miles reads the dog-eared page.

There's a picture of him and Alex standing side by side, taken last night on the red carpet. It's not the picture that has Miles worried, however. It's the article printed alongside it. Speculation that he and Alex are an item is, according to the author, running rampant. There are claims that they behaved _like a couple_ and were _inseparable_ throughout the evening. It ends on a question about Alex's sexuality, and wonders why he didn't bring his newest bird as his plus one for the event instead. By the end of the article Miles isn't sure whether to be angry, nervous, or amused and he winds up as some tentative combination of the three.

“They're taking the piss, right?” he asks, incredulous.

“'Fraid not. Me father took it seriously, anyway.”

“Christ... What'd you tell him?”

Alex takes the magazine back and throws it carelessly onto the coffee table. “That it's a load of rubbish, obviously. Wild speculation and that.” He's half-smirking as he adds, “I told him if we really were fucking he'd bloody know about it cause I'd rub his goddamn face in it. Not true, of course, but it shut him up.”

“Shit,” Miles swears emphatically. Alex doesn't seem all that bothered- maybe he's used to such rumors. But Miles is already counting the ways this could screw him over. There's his old contacts to worry about, who he'd rather not let get wind of the fact that he's working for the Turner's now. Then there's the way the article hits a little too close to home, having unwittingly and clumsily stumbled upon Miles' biggest secret, and the last thing he wants to do is give anyone cause to _wonder_. Then, finally, there's Mr. Turner, who is apparently not well pleased at the implication that his son is a poof and Miles doubts he's likely to get away with speaking to him the way Alex did.

A little concerned crease forms between Alex's brows as he picks up on Miles' worry. “What's the matter? He won't fire you or...” He trails off. Neither of them need reminding what David Turner is capable of. “He blames it all on me.”

“Next time you'll have to bring along a bird,” Miles decides, ignoring him. “You shouldn't have any trouble finding a date, right?”

Miles isn't expecting the reaction his words get. When Miles turns to him, Alex looks like he's been slapped. What was concern just seconds ago has quickly turned to annoyance. “Not you, too,” he says, sounding disappointed. “Why does it even fucking matter what they say?”

Miles opens his mouth, closes it again. He searches for the right words, careful not to give himself away. “Er, it's just- reputation-” he falters, and he can tell right away that he's put his foot in his mouth again.

“ _Reputation_ ,” Alex sneers, eyes narrowed into a glare. “Fuck your reputation.” He stands, snatches up the magazine from the coffee table and Miles is almost sure that's the end of conversation for the foreseeable future but then Alex pauses in the doorway. He says, in a tone that brooks no argument, “I'm having people over.”

“What?” Miles asks, but Alex is already gone. It forces Miles up off the settee to go after him, to follow him through the dining room, the hall, and into the study. “What people?”

Alex turns to meet him, arms folded over his chest. When he's standing in the middle of a room like _this_ and with _that_ look on his face, superior and immoveable, it's easy to picture him in his father's place. “People,” he says, as if that clears anything up. “Good people. Friends of mine.”

Miles hesitates. “Alex...”

“Don't.” Alex holds up a hand, stopping him. “Don't you dare tell me I can't.”

“I just... don't think it's a good idea, yeah? I mean, I don't even know who-”

Alex's gaze softens. Not much, but a little. He lets his arms fall to his sides. “Miles, I trust these people with my life. Alright? You've nothing to fear from them.”

“It's not me I'm worried about.”

Alex shakes his head. At the movement his hair falls into his eyes and he's forced to push it back. That one simple gesture is enough to bring him back to being the Alex that Miles is protecting, and not the Alex that will one day rule a criminal empire. Logically, of course, he's aware that they're one and the same but they certainly feel like different people. 

“Trust my judgment,” Alex says gently. “I don't have a death wish, I'm being careful.”

At this point Miles is sure that even if he said no Alex would do it anyway. But he realizes that just the simple act of telling him in advance is Alex's way of trying to keep the peace, to be helpful. So he sighs, gives his consent with a nod. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Fine. But I'm having them frisked at the door.”

A smile threatens to break free. “They should get a kick out of that.”

-

Alex's friends have already arrived by the time Miles starts his shift. It is, thankfully, a small group. Miles can hear their chatter as he makes his way to the den- not hushed, by any means, but not the unintelligible clamor of a large crowd either. In fact, when he rounds the corner, he finds only three strangers, to his surprise. They and Alex are all sat around a table that seems to have been drug in for the sole purpose of having cards played atop it. When Alex spots Miles in the doorway his grin- already wider and more genuine than Miles has ever seen it- widens even further, crinkling up the corners of his eyes. He practically jumps out of his seat to cross the room and drag Miles in by his wrist.

“Miles,” he says happily. “Let me introduce you.” They stop in front of the table and Alex gestures to the bloke on the right, “Matt,” then to the bloke on the left, “Nick,” and finally to the only girl in attendance, “and Alexa.”

Alexa is smiling up at him like she knows something he doesn't, and the other two give him mumbled hello's, but Miles finds himself more concerned with the way Alex is still holding onto his wrist. He stares blankly at the point of contact for a moment- Alex's fingers are burning holes into his skin, or it feels like they should be- before he blinks back into focus and offers up his own belated greeting. “Nice to meet you all. I suppose it goes without saying that I'll have to kill anyone that lays a finger on Alex tonight.”

“Shouldn't that depend on the nature of the finger?” Alexa asks, and giggles to herself. They're already several drinks in, if the number of bottles on the table is any indication.

“You don't have to threaten them,” Alex says, almost fondly, like he finds Miles' threats adorable. Miles isn't sure whether to be offended or not.

“Pull up a chair, eh, Miles?” Matt suggests. “We can deal you in.”

“Er, no,” Miles says, feeling compelled to decline. While spending an evening with Alex's friends sounds preferable to spending the evening alone, it also sounds like asking for trouble. “I'll keep to meself tonight, lads.”

Alex's fingers finally fall away from his wrist when he reclaims his seat beside Alexa. He looks disappointed, if that isn't Miles' imagination playing tricks on him. “You're welcome to join any time,” he says seriously, with an effort to catch Miles' eye.

“We're all quite curious about you.” Alexa again. She lays her head on Alex's shoulder and beams up at him. “This one's told us all about you. I was looking forward to meeting the real thing.”

Alex curls an arm around her shoulders. Miles shouldn't care, tells himself that he doesn't, but suddenly it's a lot easier to look anywhere but at them. The fact that Alex has apparently been talking about him does little to soften the blow. “Have to maintain an air of mystery, love,” he tells her lightly. “It's in me job description.”

Alex rolls his eyes- but his grin is back. “Feel free to maintain your mystery in the kitchen, then. There's take away.”

Miles is tempted to break his own rule and stay just to see how many times he can make Alex smile. But that's as dangerous a thought as any. He turns on his heel before he can change his mind. “Having your friend's around has made you soft, Turner,” he teases on his way out, and Alex's “Fuck you,” is _definitely_ fond.

He takes Alex up on his offer of take away and stays true to his word by keeping to himself. He sticks close, though, just in case, and tidbits of their conversations and raucous laughter float through the house. It leaves Miles feeling rather melancholy. Loneliness is something that comes with the job and the lifestyle and he made his peace with that ages ago, but sometimes it just... hits him. He can't even remember the last time he had someone he could truly call a _friend_ , with no strings or favors or debts attached to the term.

Several hours later the noise has finally died down. It gets quiet enough that Miles risks peeking in on the small party, only to find they've all wound up in front of the telly. The lights are off and, at first, the four of them are hard to make out. But as Miles' eyes adjust he sees that Matt and Nick have dozed off in their respective armchairs, while Alexa lies lengthwise along the settee, her head in Alex's lap as he absently cards his fingers through her hair. The movie plays on, ignored, as they trade whispers in the dark.

Miles immediately looks away, steeling himself against the way his stomach turns, ignoring the implications, but Alex, ever so good at being aware of him, spots him in the doorway and offers up a smile. He leans down once more to whisper something to Alexa, who shifts away from him and lets him up. Miles stays put, watching as Alex crosses the room to stand in front of him.

“Outside?” Alex suggests at a whisper. There's something soft about him tonight. His expression, maybe, which is lacking it's usual guardedness.

Miles gestures for him to lead the way. He catches Alexa watching him, a frown sitting prettily on her lips. He throws her a wink and she turns away again, expression unchanged. Such a shift from the way she regarded him earlier. Miles isn't at all sure he wants to know what was said to make her scowl at him like that.

Alex leads him out onto the patio. This far away from the city lights the stars stand out in the sky, bright and beautiful. Alex makes himself comfortable in one of the patio chairs, kicks his feet up on the table and tilts his head back to admire them. He pulls a carton of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and, without looking, offers it to Miles, who takes one gladly.

“You know,” he says as he takes his own seat beside Alex. “It's your fault I've taken this up again.”

“How's it my fault?”

“I'd nearly kicked the habit, but you- you smoke like a fucking chimney. You're a bad influence.”

Rather than seeming contrite, Alex seems delighted. He smirks, crooks a finger and, when Miles leans closer (close enough to pick up the traces of whatever cologne Alex is or was wearing), lights his cigarette for him, then his own. It's only after the first drag that he says, “Aye. But I've done you a favor, haven't I? It's a convenient excuse, innit? No one gets mad if you leave a party to have a smoke.”

Miles concedes with a shrug, wonders just how often Alex is inclined to leave a party. “My mum'd kill me if she knew. And you, too. I told her I gave it up ages ago.”

“Shouldn't lie to your mum,” Alex chides him.

“Some lies are necessary.”

Alex hums, neither disagreement nor agreement, and a companionable silence falls over them. Until Alex abruptly breaks it minutes later with, “Do you ever miss it? Home?”

Miles considers. “A little. Miss me family, of course. Wouldn't mind seeing them again. What about you? Ever thought of going back?”

Alex runs his thumb idly over the smooth wrought-iron arm rest of the patio chair. It's patterned into leaves and flowers and he traces the outline of a rose. He's watching the ocean, now, eyes tracking the waves, and Miles is watching him. Watching the way his cheeks hollow around his cigarette. Watching the gears turn as he carefully considers what to say. He's always so careful with his words. Miles has to wonder if it's a learned trait, something taught to him. Something necessary. “I miss it sometimes,” he finally decides. “Even the shite weather.”

Miles takes a drag of his cigarette, flicks ash onto the pavement. “How'd you wind up here? I've been wondering.”

“I were dragged, kicking and screaming, if you want the truth. Me dad wanted us out here- me and my mum, that is. Out of the way.”

“Of danger?”

Alex scoffs. “Yeah, right. I'm sure he'd have everyone believe that. But no, he just wanted us... gone.”

“So he exiled you to the States?”

“More or less. Now, though, it's worked out in his favor. He's got me out here to... hold down the fort, so to speak.” The corner of his mouth twitches up into a smirk. “I'm his claim, you see. His way of marking his territory. Brutal, innit? But that's the sort of loving father he is, I suppose.”

Miles is becoming familiar with that far off look in his eye. It's a look that signifies remembrance. The more Alex remembers, the unhappier he seems, until the silence stretches on and a frown has creased his forehead. He shakes his own self out of it, throws his burnt down cigarette away with a flick of his wrist. “And you?” he asks then. His smile is only somewhat forced. “What drew the mysterious Mr. Kane to America, eh? Were it the girls? The weather? The food?”

“None of the above,” Miles confesses, laughing. His cigarette butt joins Alex's on the ground. “The food's shit and it's too damn hot here.”

“But the birds are alright, eh?”

There's a knowing, mischievous glint in Alex's eyes that would be hard to mistake but Miles chooses to ignore it. “Aye. They're alright,” he gently agrees. “But I didn't come for them, either.”

“What, then?”

It's been years now but Miles still gets twitchy when he thinks about his panicked flight from home. The whole situation is rather unpleasant to think back on but Alex has been frank tonight, it only seems right to return the favor. So he's as frank as he can be. “I, er... got on the wrong side of some bad people,” he admits carefully. “So I went to New York, cause I knew there were work there. Then... that started to go bad, and there were this bloke offering a lot of cash for a job over here, so...” He trails off, shrugs. “Here I am.”

Alex tilts a brow at him. “That's the censored version, I take it? I feel like I know even less about you than I did before, mate.”

“We've both got shit in our pasts we'd rather not talk about, right? Shit we _can't_ talk about.”

“True enough,” Alex agrees. “Suppose some of it's better left alone, anyway. We don't need to know it all, do we?”

There's a part of his question left unsaid. _We don't need to know it all to be friends, do we?_ Miles reads between the lines, answers readily, “Nah, mate, not at all,” thinking to himself that there are probably things in Alex's past he's better off _not_ knowing. Things he might not even _want_ to know. Won't stop him digging, though, trying to piece together the puzzle that is Alex Turner, even if that curiosity is bound to get him in trouble.

They stay outside long past the point of pretense. Long past the point that Alex should have returned to Alexa. But Alex doesn't make his excuses and Miles doesn't remind him and by the time the laughter and conversation finally dies off the hour hand on Alex's designer watch is inching toward six and Miles is very carefully not thinking about how time seems to fly when he's with Alex.

Alex yawns into his fist and, when he next speaks, Miles is sure it's going to be an apology and an escape to bed but Alex simply aims an uncharacteristically soft, sleepy smile at him and declares, “Breakfast.”

Miles couldn't refuse him even if he wanted to. They wind up at the kitchen table, eating toast, scattering crumbs, grinning at each other over glasses of orange juice and occasionally devolving into childish giggles over nothing in particular, in a way that's only possible when one is sleep deprived.

Miles knows this won't last. Alex is only so open, so free with his laughter, because he's drunk and tired. So he cherishes it while he can, tries to memorize the way Alex looks in the early morning light, hair mussed and cheeks pink and lips curled up into a contented smile.

It only takes the arrival of Michael to shatter the magic of the morning. Miles sees him before Alex does, takes note of the scornful look on his face, and abruptly excuses himself.

“Gotta get home,” he says, and watches as Alex's face falls.

Alex grabs hold of his sleeve as he passes, stilling him. For a second he just looks up at Miles, eyes flitting over his features, while Miles grows hyper aware of Michael watching them. Then he shakes his head. “Miles, I-” But he interrupts himself. He releases his hold, drops his gaze back down to his plate. “I'll see you tonight.”

“Yeah, 'course.”

Miles thinks to make a hasty exit, with only a perfunctory greeting to Michael, but Michael tilts his head and sneers, “Getting awfully chummy, aren't you?”

His words give Miles pause but there's nothing he can say in his own defense. He hitches his bag higher up on his shoulder and ignores the jibe.

“Just be careful,” Michael calls after him, just a second before the door shuts between them.


	5. Chapter 5

Alex's fingers fumble with his tie for the third time. He swears under his breath.

“Need a hand?” Miles asks, watching him with one eyebrow raised from his perch on the lofty armchair in the corner of Alex's room. Though night has already started to fall, Alex has left the balcony doors propped open. A warm breeze floats in and ruffles the curtains every so often, bringing with it the smell of the ocean. Miles considered asking him to close it, for safety's sake, but he hadn't the heart. “Don't guess you do this much, eh?”

“Fuck off. I've got it,” Alex mutters. He's standing in front of the full-length mirror, readying for a meeting- though by his expression you'd think he was readying for war. That he's nervous is plain but Miles is kind enough not to point it out.

“So what is this tonight?” Miles asks, trying to work out what reason Alex has to be nervous without being blunt. “Just a money meeting, yeah?”

“Yeah. I bloody hate these things.”

“Why's that? Boring?”

There's a pause. “No- nah. It's just- I can't stand the bloke who runs them, you know? He's a real wanker, if you want the truth- oh, _fuck_.” Alex looks at his crooked tie like it's betrayed him.

Miles crosses the space between them in two long strides. He takes Alex's hands, still fumbling with the knot. “Let me,” he quietly insists.

Alex stares at Miles' fingers, curling around his own. For a second Miles thinks he might argue- but then he drops his hands, breaking contact, and looks away. “Fine.”

Miles makes quick work of the tie, all too aware of how little distance there is between them. But when he finishes he finds he's unwilling to step away. Alex radiates warmth- not necessarily a physical warmth (though when Miles' fingers brush the skin at his throat he is warm to the touch), but a feeling that Miles wants to bask in. It's hard to explain, and hard to write off as pure lust, though Miles is going to try.

He abruptly steps back when Alex casts a shrewd look at him, clears his throat. “Er, there. All done,” he says awkwardly. His awkwardness seems to have the opposite effect on Alex, who smiles at him. 

“I _do_ know how to tie a tie,” he insists. He smooths a hand over it, preening. “But thank you.”

Miles unconsciously takes another step back, putting more distance between them as Alex rolls up his cuffs. He looks good, perfectly tousled. More like he's going to be walking another red carpet than going to a meeting. 

Miles tears his eyes away. “Be honest with me, Alex,” he says after a moment. “Do I have a reason to worry tonight?”

Alex shrugs, going for nonchalant. “Nah, mate. All the precautions are being taken. We're meeting at a different time and place than normal and that. Should be fine.” He hesitates, cuts his eyes at Miles as he considers. “I didn't lie- the bloke is a wanker, and I hate him. But tonight... Well, I might've...” He trails off. Though he's done dressing, he still fidgets with his sleeves. “There were this deal,” he says quietly. “It was left to me to negotiate the terms. But, er. Negotiations didn't go so well, if you catch my meaning, and the deal went to shit. So now this bloke's gonna sort me out on me father's behalf, and I'm not looking forward to it.”

“They blame you?”

“Course. Maybe I'll get nothing worse than a tongue lashing, but...”

“But...?”

Alex shrugs, mumbles, “We'll see.”

If he was going for reassuring, he misses by a mile. If someone raises a hand to Alex on his father's behalf, Miles can't step in. He knows that. It'd be a quick way to lose at least a limb, if not something more vital. But he's not at all sure he'd be able to stop himself. Sitting by and watching Alex get hurt isn't something he thinks he's capable of and he can only hope that won't be put to the test.

Miles tries to keep them both from stewing in their nerves by chatting aimlessly about whatever pops into his head as they slide into the car, but the closer they get to their destination the harder it is to keep a conversation going as Alex retreats into his own thoughts and falls quiet. For lack of anything better to say, Miles tells him, “Won't be coming round tomorrow, by the way. Just so you know. So you aren't looking for me.” He hastens to add, “Er, not that I think you would be, or anything-”

“You're not coming?” Alex looks mildly distressed by the news, or at least sort of surprised. “Why not?”

“It's me day off.”

Alex blinks. “...You get those?”

“Not usually. I, er. Requested it.”

“What for?”

Of course Alex would ask. Miles shouldn't have brought it up- now it would seem silly for him to beg off having to explain. “It's an anniversary,” he carefully admits. “Two years since the day I was finally done bribing, working, and cheating my way out of the business.”

Whatever Alex expected to hear, that evidently wasn't it. His expression softens. “Oh. How're you going to celebrate, then? It _is_ a celebration, innit?”

“Of sorts.” Miles shrugs. “I'll celebrate the usual way, I suppose, by heading down to the pub and drinking my weight.”

“Alone?”

Miles looks up sharply at the question, only to find Alex looking back, the perfect picture of nonchalance as he tilts a curious brow and waits for Miles' answer. “Alone, yeah,” Miles tells him, watches as what might be relief flits across his features. “Of course.”

“Don't have any mates to drink with?”

Miles has people he would call friends but the designation is mostly undeserved. Just because he trusts them not to sell him out doesn't mean he'd sit down and have a drink and a chat with them. He wasn't always like this, a loner and a hermit. It's an attitude he adopted for self-preservation after he decided to start over again. Don't get too close to anyone, too friendly, and they can't betray you. Simple.

So, “No, there's no one.”

Maybe it comes out a bit bitter because Alex reaches over to pat his knee sympathetically.

“It's by choice,” Miles belatedly adds, staring hard at Alex's knuckles when his hand lingers.

“Mmhmm,” Alex hums, disbelieving.

Miles doesn't get a chance to further defend himself. The car chooses that moment to slow and then stop and then he and Alex are climbing out of the car. Miles sticks close as they make for the block of apartments, practically glued to Alex's side, eyes flitting to rooftops and darkened windows, wary.

It's doubtful that anyone in Alex's employ, or his father's, actually lives in any of these flats. The inside is just as plain and no-frills as the outside. While not run down and cramped, like Miles' place, it's definitely lacking for luxury.

Alex stops outside a ground floor flat and raps his knuckles on the door. It swings open a moment later, revealing an unlived in space. No furniture, no decorations, not a speck of dirt. The bloke who greets them is around Miles' age, by his guess, with a hard look on his face and a hand hovering over the gun at his hip.

Alex waves him off. “He's here?” he asks, glancing past the bloke in the doorway.

With a nod, the guy steps aside, granting them entrance. Alex steps over the threshold but when Miles tries to follow he's stopped by a palm against his chest.

Miles looks down at the point of contact, then back up, questioning. Alex's eyes are apologetic. “Sorry, you'll have to wait out here, mate.”

“What? Alex, how the fuck do you expect me to do my job if-”

“Order are orders,” Alex gently interrupts. “I won't be long.”

Miles hesitates. He wants to argue but something tells him it would be fruitless. “Be careful,” he pleads under his breath.

A small smile is all the reassurance Miles gets. Then, with a very curious look from the bloke who let them in, the door shuts in his face.

-

Alex didn't lie, it doesn't take them long. Twenty minutes, maybe, during which time Miles hears a baby from a flat across the hall start crying, a couple a level above start fighting, and the ruckus of a small party next door- but nothing from the flat Alex disappeared into. Though he strains his ears for even the smallest sound, nothing is forthcoming. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't impatient. He spends his time pacing and fidgeting and worrying.

Not for nothing, it turns out. Alex walks out with a fearsome scowl and a shallow cut across one cheek, like he was slapped. Just seeing the angry red mark raises Miles' hackles but before he can get a word out, Alex raises a hand, silencing him.

“Don't ask,” he says through gritted teeth.

So Miles doesn't. He throws an arm around Alex's shoulders and guides him back to the car. Pretends not to notice when, on the ride home, he traces the cut with a finger and his anger gives way to sadness.

-

“Drinking alone?”

Miles looks up, irritated retort on the tip of his tongue, but it dies a swift death when his eyes land on the bloke beside him. Instead, he smirks, and his quip becomes an invitation. “Not anymore.”

The bloke's cheeky smile grows cheekier. He makes himself comfortable on the bar stool beside Miles. He's unfairly attractive- sandy blonde hair swept back from his face, dark eyes, cheekbones from the gods, a surfer's tan. Just different enough from Alex to be the distraction Miles needs.

He leans closer, holds out a hand. “Name's Miles.”

“Ethan,” the bloke says. He holds onto Miles' hand just a beat longer than necessary. He's American, of course, and, like all Americans, he feels the need to point out Miles' accent. “English, right?” he guesses, and doesn't give Miles time to confirm or deny. “So you're not from around here?”

Miles considers him, takes a swig of his drink. “Why? Going to offer to show me round the city?”

“Maybe,” Ethan says, eyes twinkling. “Could at least show you some better bars. This place is dead.”

Miles makes a show of looking around, of noting the only two other occupants. A young lady who's been nursing the same beer since Miles walked through the door, and an older bloke in a leather vest that's been knocking back shots at the other end of the bar and stewing in his own misery. But that's why Miles picked this place. It's out of the way, not well known, and definitely not somewhere he might run into anyone he knows. Aside from that it's got a certain... character to it. There's a certain charm to it's wear and tear, a kind of hominess.

“I don't need a tour guide,” Miles tells him frankly, gaze trained on a stolen stop sign nailed to the wall across from him. “What I need... is a distraction.”

Ethan narrows his eyes. “Alcohol not doing the trick?” he wonders, perhaps picking up on the slight slur to Miles' words. He's already several drinks in and can admit that there's a good chance Ethan is leagues more sober than him, which might be a disadvantage.

“Nah,” he admits. “Can't get him-” _Him_? Had he just said him? He'd meant _it_. It as in the job. The stress of working for the Turner's, the guilt of being reeled back into a world he'd thought to be rid of, the worry that, at any moment, he might get a devastating phone call. “Er- it. Can't get it out of me head, that is.”

“Want to talk about it?” Ethan asks. Before Miles can answer he waves the bartender over. “Two more, on me,” he says, and Miles has never been one to turn down a free drink. He accepts it with a smile.

“Cheers, mate.”

“Cheers.” Ethan downs half his beer in one go. At Miles' raised brow he says simply, “Have to catch up, don't I?”

Miles shrugs. In answer to Ethan's previous question he says, “I don't, really. Want to talk about it, I mean. Like I said, I want a distraction.” He levels Ethan with a meaningful look and waits.

Ethan takes another long drink. Maybe he's stalling, maybe he needs time to _think_. He gives Miles a blatant once-over. The corners of his lips tilt up. “Happy to oblige,” he says eventually, and Miles gets the feeling that if he weren't drunk he'd find Ethan to be an insufferably cocky arsehole, but right now it doesn't matter what Ethan is aside from gorgeous. Miles doesn't allow himself to be shallow very often but he figures he's earned it.

“How about another drink,” Ethan goes on. “Then we head to my place? It's not far.”

Miles hums. It's neither a yes nor a no, but of course Ethan takes it as agreement. He calls for two more drinks, which are promptly placed in front of them.

They're only halfway through their second round, however, when Miles' mobile rings.

He considers ignoring it- it's his personal phone, after all, not his work phone, so he doubts it's a crisis. But his conscience berates him for the decision before it's even been made. With a sigh, he turns away from Ethan's curious look and raises the phone to his ear. “'Lo?”

“Miles?”

Miles' heart absolutely doesn't skip a beat, but it's a close call. He clears his throat, very aware of Ethan listening in. “Alex? Why are you- how'd you get this number?”

“I have my ways,” Alex says mysteriously. It's quiet on his end, he's talking soft and low. Miles can barely hear him over the music from the old jukebox playing in the corner.

He lowers the phone, apologizes to Ethan over his shoulder. “Sorry, mate, need to take this. Just be a minute.” He doesn't wait for Ethan's response before he slips out the door and into the warm, almost muggy night. The streets are all but deserted in this part of town, this far on the outskirts. It's not a part of town most people would dare walk alone in, anyway, so Miles has the sidewalk to himself. Across the street, two stray cats yowl and hiss at each other as they vie for crumbs in an alley. Maybe the sound carries or maybe Alex is just curious, but when Miles brings the phone back to his ear Alex is in the midst of asking, “Where are you?”

“Where I said I'd be,” Miles tells him. One hand slips into his pocket. He runs his finger along the edge of the cigarette carton there while he contemplates whether or not to have one. “At the pub.”

Alex is quiet, listening. “Doesn't sound like any pub I know,” he argues.

“It's not,” Miles agrees. He can't imagine Alex being found in a place like this. He's more suited to lounges and clubs and the VIP treatment. Meanwhile this place is a dingy brick building with no sign, no windows, and, evidently, no cleaning lady. Surely Alex would turn his nose up. “That's sort of the point.”

Alex takes another moment to assess whether or not he should be offended. Evidently he decides against it. “Are you pissed yet?”

“Getting there.” Miles leans heavily against the brick behind him. “But I was rather rudely interrupted.”

“I... I don't know why- sorry,” Alex says. “I can go.”

“Wait,” Miles says, still puzzling through Alex's stutterings. “I were only joking.”

“No, I should- I dunno why I called, really. Only I've had a bit meself and it seemed like a good idea. Should've known I'd be interrupting something.”

Evidently Alex is reading between the lines. He's not wrong, though. Miles glances back towards the door. Ethan is waiting for him, presumably. Miles should hang up, finish his drink, and get bloody laid. All that stands between him and a shagging is a polite goodbye. But he can't bring himself to say it. He can picture Alex quiet clearly, sitting alone at the kitchen table perhaps, the room dark as he toys with the label on his beer bottle and chews his lower lip. That's a bad habit of his, Miles has noticed, and something he's undoubtedly doing now as Miles' pause stretches on.

“You weren't,” Miles tells him. He closes his eyes, tilts his head back against the brick. Resigned. “Interrupting, I mean. I were just on me way home, actually.”

“Oh.” Alex's relief is palpable. “Er, still shouldn't have phoned, probably. Pretty sure that's against protocol, innit?”

“So why did you?”

Alex's mobile _just_ picks up the noise of him drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Then, it stops. “These long nights,” he says, voice suddenly soft. “They get lonely, eh?”

Miles sighs. “Yeah. Suppose they do. But you've got mates, haven't you?”

“I do. But not like you.”

“How do you mean?”

Alex hums as he thinks. “It's just- they don't get it, I don't think. They're always prying, or taking the piss. Acting like it's all some daft game. Cause they're not involved, you see. But you... You don't pry. You take it seriously. But you aren't afraid of me either.”

Miles opens his mouth, but Alex's scoff cuts him off before he even starts. “Listen to me, blabbering on- I'm well pissed already, sorry. And on your only day off, too. You could probably do without me talking your ear off, eh?”

“I don't mind,” Miles assures him. The words are out of his mouth before he means them to be, and there's something like a fond smile playing at the corners of his lips. He just manages to stop himself saying, _I could listen to you talk for ages_ , or something else equally as daft and sickening. Instead, he swallows those words and tries again. “I, er. Could use the company.”

“Yeah?”

Miles pushes off from the wall, stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts the walk home, giving up on the idea of Ethan once and for all. It's worrying how easy it is to choose Alex, even when all Alex is offering is friendly conversation. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Alex's laugh is happy and warm and it goes straight to Miles' head. “Good.”

Miles is officially in trouble.


	6. Chapter 6

Miles blinks awake at half past three in the afternoon. He stares hard at the discolored spot on his ceiling as the last remnants of his dreams swirl around in his head. There'd been a beach, this time, and Alex, though what they'd been doing and why has already faded from memory. Still, it's left a good aftertaste. A pleasant feeling in his skull, which is a nice change from his usual dreams of death and madness.

That he rolls over some minutes later to find his phone lit up with a message from the very same boy he'd been dreaming about is a happy coincidence. Miles can't help the way his lips twitch up as he reaches for the phone, but his smile quickly turns into a grimace when he reads what Alex has to say. 

_Charity ball tonight. Wear something nice._

He hadn't needed the reminder. Miles taps out a quick reply- _why are you so fucking posh_ \- and blindly tosses his phone onto the bed.

He gets to his feet with a sigh and stretches out his aching muscles. There's nothing to be done about his back, which is more or less in a constant state of agony thanks to the world's most uncomfortable mattress, or his knee, which has ached perpetually since he was tossed down a flight of stairs several years ago. It's times like these, when his years of hard living catch up to him, that he feels every bit of his age and then some. It's like an unpleasant reminder, really, of his former life. Yet another unpleasant reminder, that is. As if he didn't have enough already.

Miles avoids the mirror as he readies, taking only the occasional peek to see that his hair is laying right and his suit is still fitted and stainless. He doesn't need to look long- he knows what the mirror would show him. A man in desperate need of a haircut and a night of decent sleep. A man with circles under his eyes, hollowed cheeks, and stubble that's starting to get out of hand. A man who's seen better days.

He'll stand out like a sore thumb at this charity ball. There's no getting around it. But he tries to at least make himself presentable enough that Alex won't be embarrassed to have him tag along. Though, with the level of scorn Alex usually displays for these things, he might think it was funny to show up with a bloke so clearly from the wrong side of the tracks. He seems to enjoy shocking the general public. When he isn't hiding from them, that is.

Miles is nearly out the door when his phone buzzes in his hand. He answers the call with, “You're abusing your privilege here, Al.”

Alex's laugh is warm. “I don't here you complaining, eh?”

“No,” Miles says, on reflex. He isn't, and he doubts he will be any time soon. “What'd you need?”

“Only called to tell you to wear a bit of red.”

He's using a tone of voice Miles has come to identify as his _I expect to be obeyed_ tone of voice. “Why?”

There's a pause, like Alex is surprised Miles would ask. “You'll see,” he says eventually. Mysteriously. Typical.

Miles wanders back to his closet to look for anything red. “You couldn't just tell me in a text message?”

“Wanted to hear you,” Alex says, practically _purrs_ , and Miles immediately dismisses it as a joke for the sake of his own sanity. “Needed to make sure you'd follow orders.”

“That what this is now? An _order_?”

“Naturally.”

Miles ignores the flutter of wings in the pit of his stomach. “How ridiculous am I allowed to be?”

“Why?”

“I've got red trousers.”

Alex laughs, short and sharp. “Of course you do.”

“Oi, what's that mean?”

Alex's voice is colored with fondness when he says, “Only that your wardrobe never ceases to amaze me. Just be your usual level of ridiculous, please.”

“You asked for it, mate.”

“That I did,” Alex agrees, and promptly hangs up. Evidently that's a habit of his. Not saying goodbye.

-

“We fucking _match_ ,” Miles observes, toneless, as Alex trots down the front steps to meet him at the car. “Why do we match?”

Alex stops in front of him, close, looks him up and down. “You look good,” he says, voice low, ignoring the question. Like it's a secret just meant for the two of them. But Thomas is watching them shrewdly from the porch, arms folded over his chest and eyes narrowed. Alex's smile has an edge to it.

Miles swallows. For lack of anything better to do, and feeling like he should put space between them, he steps back to open the car door and gestures for Alex to climb in. He follows and asks again, “Alex, why do we match?”

Alex leans forward to give directions to Richard, then sits back and says, “Technically we don't match. We compliment each other.” Then, at Miles' unamused look, he adds more seriously, “We're pissing off me dad. That's why.”

“Oh,” Miles says blandly. Then it clicks. “ _Oh_. Shit, Alex. I don't have your fucking immunity, you know?”

Alex looks over, alarmed at the outburst. “He won't do anything to you, Miles. It's all a bit of fun. Relax.”

Miles tries to take him at his word, but he still worries. That Alex would deliberately play into the public's perception of them as a couple is surprising, but Miles should've guessed. Alex takes a devilish sort of joy out of getting under his father's skin, of course he would use Miles to irk him. Hopefully David Turner will realize Miles had very little to do with this stunt when he undoubtedly sees the press. These charity balls, while not the _worst_ excuse to get a bunch of famous and wealthy people together in a room, are still just that- an excuse to put the rich and famous together and snap pictures.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” Miles mumbles- but of course Alex doesn't. He couldn't possibly know that, aside from a few flamboyant wardrobe choices, Miles has spent the better part of his life trying to _avoid_ being thought of as gay. If he did, he'd never have pulled something like this. Or, at least, Miles likes to think he wouldn't have.

“It'll be alright,” Alex says, reassuring smile there and gone in the blink of an eye.

They arrive, of course, to the snapping and flashing of cameras. Miles sticks close to Alex, nervous, eying anyone who gets too close. Alex keeps his head down- but he slides his arm around Miles' waist, like it belongs there, like _Miles_ belongs to him, and isn't that a thought. It takes a lot of effort on Miles' part not to give away the game with a baffled expression or a startled twitch. Once they're inside, Alex's arm falls away, and Miles isn't sure how to feel about that either.

The event is being held in the ballroom of a hotel that probably costs more to stay in for a night than it does to stay in Miles' apartment for a month. There are a lot of people in attendance, more than Miles had braced himself for, but the room is so vast that the space is still a long way from crowded. Beside him, Alex doesn't even seem to notice the massive, golden chandeliers, dripping crystals, or the beautiful wrought-iron railing surrounding the balcony upstairs, or the marble archways carved into the walls or the lush, red silk curtains- or any of the other outlandishly decadent decorations. He breezes through the place like a man used to such lavishness.

“This _is_ a charity ball, isn't it?” Miles mutters.

“Yeah. Supposedly,” Alex agrees.

“I guess you've got to make the rounds now, eh? Rub elbows with all the right people and that?”

Alex heaves a put upon sigh. “I do. Care to tag along?”

Miles is quick to shake his head. While straying too far from Alex is probably a bad idea, he'd rather not spend the night watching him make awkward small talk with people he barely knows, and sticking to his side is a surefire way to draw attention to himself. “I'll find a quiet corner or summat and keep an eye on things. Don't wander off too far without me.”

Alex nods but before he can walk away Miles grabs his arm, stilling him. “I'm serious,” he says, catching Alex's eye. “Line of sight, Alex. I need to be able to see you at all times.”

“Course,” Alex agrees easily, slipping out of his grasp. But Miles can see that he doesn't believe himself to be in any danger. Why should he? Most of these people are probably his friends or, failing that, friendly acquaintances. Maybe it's naivety that keeps him from realizing the full extent of the risk he takes just by stepping foot outside his own door. Whatever it is that keeps him feeling something akin to safe, Miles isn't keen to shatter the illusion. He lets him go, having done all he can to impress upon him the seriousness of the situation.

He watches as Alex works his way through the crowd. Miles keeps to the outskirts, hugs the walls, eventually finds himself a shadowed corner. Alex gets trapped into what looks like an almost painfully uncomfortable chat with an older couple, then extracts himself and talks more openly with a woman Miles is sure must is a model. Not long later, a man with gray in his hair wanders by and snags Alex for a conversation. It goes on like that for some time, Alex being jimmied from one group to the next. Miles tenses every time Alex is approached by someone new, watching their hands carefully, but overall it's a rather dull affair. The classical music does nothing to help but at least there's an open bar to liven things up. Miles is tempted, very tempted. Even briefly considers it, but he's never been one to break his own rules.

“No drinks on the job?” Alexa asks, apparently having read his mind. She approaches him with a cautious smile, looking every bit the classical starlet. Miles hadn't even been aware she was in attendance. “I could fetch you one, if you like.”

“Ta, love, but you're right- can't drink on the job.” Over her shoulder, Miles watches as Alex spots someone he knows in the crowd and makes his way toward them with a grin. It's a bloke- handsome, from what Miles can see, with sandy hair and broad shoulders. He doesn't return Alex's warm greeting.

“Pity,” she says, and punctuates it with a delicate sip from her own champagne glass. “Just thought I'd say hello. I was worried we got off on the wrong foot, and Alex seems so fond of you-”

“What?” Miles tears his eyes away from where Alex and his maybe-friend are now engaged in tense conversation, standing close, shoulders bent in, blocking out the rest of the party. “Did he say that?”

Alexa tilts a brow at him. “That he's fond of you? Not in so many words.”

Miles fights down a blush at his own eagerness. He ducks his head. “Er, we didn't. Get off on the wrong foot, that is.”

“Oh, good.” She sounds genuinely relieved. “It's just- I wasn't sure about you at first, you know, and I worry about him. About Alex. But it seems like you and I are both interested in keeping him safe, and the way he talks about you...” She trails off. “Well, I just think we might be allies, of a sort.”

“Seems like Alex is lacking for those.”

“And you, too. Or am I wrong?”

Miles studies her, the sharp look in her eye. She's perceptive. It's unnerving. He nods, a silent confession that she's right, and it brings a smile to her face.

“By the way, what happened to...” She taps her own cheekbone, tilts her head in Alex's direction.

She's referring, of course, to the lingering mark from Alex's meeting. He hadn't bothered to cover it up. “Nothing to worry about,” Miles assures her, somewhat hollowly. “Says it adds to his _bad boy_ image.”

“Oh, is that right?” She very nearly laughs. “Well, cheers, then,” she says, tilting her glass. “I'll leave you to it.”

With the reminder, Miles glances past her again, searching out Alex, and it's only with a second glance that he realizes Alex is no longer there. He pushes off from the wall, scanning the crowd. Growing more and more worried as his eyes flit from group to group and fail to find Alex lurking amongst his peers. “Shit,” he says emphatically.

Beside him, Alexa turns to follow his gaze. She's quick to catch on and goes stiff when she realizes what's got Miles suddenly on edge. She clasps his wrist loosely in her fingers. “I'll check upstairs,” she says quickly. “He can't have gotten far.” She sounds as though she's trying to reassure Miles more than she is herself. Like she's worried he might fall apart or devolve into panic. He's prone to neither.

Instead, he nods, and off she goes toward the stairs while he works his way across the room, scanning every face, calling Alex's name as calmly as he can while his heart races in his chest.

He's just about to check the loo, fingers crossed and a silent prayer on his lips, when a woman stops him. “Alex? Alex Turner?” she asks, evidently having heard his calls. “I think I just saw him headed outside.” She gestures loosely- not toward the front entrance but toward an easy to overlook door set at the back of the room. Probably meant for discreet employee use, probably leading to an alley or something of the like, and Miles starts hoping fervently that Alex only stepped out for a smoke, even if it would be daft of him to leave without a word.

“Thank you,” Miles tells her kindly, smiling as though nothing is wrong. But it's an effort not to break into a run as he makes for the door. He shoves it open with no ceremony. It closes behind him with a surprisingly loud metallic _clang_ as his eyes land on four figures, three standing and one on the ground. There's little light to see by but Miles can just make out the glint of a knife held in a closed fist.

As Miles finally breaks into a run, one of the figures aims a kick at Alex's stomach. Alex doesn't cry out, just curls in on himself, arms shielding his head, and suddenly Miles is seeing red and thinking _how fucking dare they, how dare they_ on a loop and drawing his gun, hidden under his coat. He raises the gun, doesn't even think twice about it, about pulling the trigger, but then he hears Alex. Weak, surprised, loud enough for his attackers to hear. “Miles?”

The three make a break for it when they spot him, scattering, hopping the fence, disappearing around corners, and Miles' finger twitches toward the trigger, aiming down the sights at the back of the nearest bloke- the bloke Alex had been talking to inside, clad in blue- but a hand closes around his ankle.

“Don't,” Alex orders. He coughs. “Stop- leave them be,” he says again, voice firm, like he could sense Miles preparing to go after them.

Miles hesitates, poised to disobey.

“Let them _go_ , Miles.” He hisses from between clenched teeth, “They'll fucking get what they deserve.”

The opportunity has passed. He can't even hear their footfalls on the concrete anymore. With a frustrated growl, he kneels beside Alex, surveys the damage.

“Oh, Christ, Al,” he breaths, all the fight leaving him in an instant as concern takes its place. Alex has propped himself up against the wall, one arm curled over his stomach. Miles takes his face between his hands, gentle as he knows how to be. They've dealt him a black eye and a bloody nose. There's a fairly nasty cut at his eyebrow that's bleeding so much that Alex is probably finding it difficult to see. “What the fuck happened to you, eh? I take me eyes off you for two seconds and you get your arse kicked.”

“It were Jamie,” Alex tells him. Anger is coming off him in waves. “Fucking _Jamie_. Fucking traitor. He tried to do me in cause of Katie.”

It takes Miles only a second to place the name. “The bird you bagged at that awards show? What's she to do with it?” He pulls his phone out, sends off a quick message to Richard to pull the car around- and to be circumspect about it and leave the paparazzi at the gate. Then he sets to work checking Alex for anything more serious than bruising. Alex winces when Miles pries his arm from his stomach but he doesn't put up any fuss when Miles hikes up his bloodied shirt and prods gingerly at his ribs.

“I didn't shag Katie,” Alex says, and then, like it's nothing, “I shagged Jamie.” But the way he looks at Miles from under his lashes, anticipatory, gives him away. He's less nonchalant than he appears.

Miles freezes as what he's said settles in. It has trouble finding a home in his brain. If Alex notices the number he's just done on Miles' worldview, he doesn't show it. Instead, after a beat, he swipes angrily at mess on his face with the back of his hand and doesn't seem concerned in the slightest when it comes away soaked with blood, and still with more dripping down his cheek.

“Oh,” Miles says faintly, so faintly that he's not even sure Alex hears. He forces himself to keep moving, to keep checking Alex over, until he's satisfied that Alex isn't going to die anytime soon- it would seem Miles reached him before they did any real damage- and he sits back, giving himself space.

“Yeah,” Alex goes on, oblivious. “She found out somehow and he's blaming me, the prick.” The words are positively venomous, and Miles doesn't much like the gleam in his eyes either.

Richard pulls up almost soundlessly, lights off. Miles has never been happier to see him.

“Car,” Miles tells Alex, pushing everything else aside. “Come on.”

He gets Alex on his feet, arm round his waist, and they shamble unsteadily towards the car. Richard opens the door for them, doesn't look worried or surprised in the slightest to see his boss bleeding and bruised. Makes Miles wonder just how many fights Alex has been in and, more importantly, how many he's started.

Alex doesn't seem keen to strike up a conversation. As a result, the first half of the ride is spent in silence, Alex watching the scenery pass by outside the window. Then Miles breaks the silence with, “Should I call a doctor? Take you to hospital?”

“No. Don't be daft. I'm fine.” Said quickly, tonelessly.

“Alright. So why didn't you let me go after them?”

Alex doesn't look at him. “It were- I didn't-” he falters, before falling silent. Miles studies his profile while he thinks. The line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, his sharp nose and the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his skin when he closes his eyes. He's beautiful, and bloody, and it turns out Miles' anger hasn't been completely snuffed out. It flares to life again when he lets his mind wander to what might've happened if he hadn't turned up when he did. Would Jamie have killed Alex? The absolutely raw, gut-wrenching feeling that thought leaves him with is worrisome, to say the least.

“I didn't want you to bloody your hands,” Alex says eventually. The words come slowly, like each one has to be forcibly dragged out of him.

“Didn't want me to-” Miles gapes. That was the last answer he expected. “That's what I'm fucking _here for_.”

Alex flinches. “I know, but-”

“Stop,” Miles snaps. “Fucking hell. Didn't want me to bloody my hands? Were you trying to _protect_ me?”

“Not... exactly...” Miles glares, so Alex hastily adds, “It were more- I mean, you got out, yeah? You wanted out. And I don't wanna be responsible for dragging you back in.”

Outside, rain begins to fall. The metallic patter of it on the roof of the car is unexpected. For several seconds, it's the only sound, barring the loud thump of Miles' own heart in his ears.

“Alex,” Miles says, softly, and he waits until Alex is looking at him, expression carefully blank, before he continues. “My hands are already bloody. They're dripping with the stuff- even now. I wanted out, sure, but that doesn't erase everything I've done.”

Alex ducks his chin, closes his eyes like he's trying to block Miles out. But Miles won't let him.

“I've killed people.” He states it like a fact, like _the sky is blue and the grass is green_ , tone devoid of life. It's an idea that took some getting used to. He used to say it to himself, sometimes, until it lost all meaning. Better that way. He says, louder, “I've killed _a lot_ of people. So many I've lost count. You know that, don't you? You know what I used to do? What I used to be?”

Alex shakes his head. His mouth is a thin, hard line, and though his eyes are open now, he stares straight ahead, unseeing.

“I were an assassin, a hitman, a gun for hire- whatever you wanna fucking call it. I killed people. For money. And I were good at it.”

“But you got out,” Alex says, hopeful, throwing him a lifeline. But Miles doesn't deserve it, so he doesn't take it.

“Me last kill... It were a bird named Suki. Pretty little thing. Nice, too. They did horrible things to that poor girl. Just cause she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Miles remembers all his kills over the years, some in more vivid detail than others, but this is the only memory that still has any bite to it. He takes a deep breath, voice strained as he admits, “She begged me not to shoot her. _Begged_ , Alex. But I did it anyway. Right between the eyes. But the worst part is, I'd do it again.”

Alex finally looks up at that, alarmed, asking all kinds of questions with his eyes.

“I knew if I didn't, they'd kill me. So I made a choice. And I'd make the same choice again, a thousand times. I wouldn't die for her. I won't die for anyone.”

Alex shakes his head again. Miles isn't sure what he's denying.

“I'm not some saint,” Miles tells him, sinking back into his seat, arms folded over his chest. A defensive posture. The point of this wasn't to spill all his secrets, or to get Alex to see him for what he truly is- human, and a poor one at that- but now that he's started he can't seem to stop. The words just pour out of him and suddenly he just wants Alex to _know_. He'd have to find out eventually, Miles couldn't have kept his true nature secret for long. Best to get it over with, then. “I'm selfish, and greedy, and I can be bloody cruel. If you wanted them dead, you should've let me go after them. I'll kill for you, Alex, in a heartbeat, but I won't die for you.” He sighs. “Now that you know that you'll be wanting to fire me and find someone else, eh? Someone willing to take a bullet for you.”

Alex doesn't say anything. He drops his gaze to his own hands, still streaked with blood, and the silence stretches on until the end of the car ride.

The silence is worse, somehow, than anything Alex might've said. It leaves Miles in suspense. In limbo. He hates it. He's just crushed Alex's shining vision of him under his boot heel and Alex either has nothing to say or is keeping it to himself.

Alex stumbles getting out of the car, but when Miles reaches for him, to support him, he shrugs him off. The rain plasters his hair to his head and washes away most of the blood. “Don't need your help,” he says. Miles can't tell if it's his usual brand of stubbornness and arrogance or a result of Miles' little revelations. Either way, he lets Alex struggle into the house on his own, clearly sore and aching.

“People will wonder where you went,” Miles says, before Alex can disappear up the stairs.

Alex says, eloquently, without turning around, “Fuck them.”

“At least text Alexa,” Miles calls after him. His first instinct is to follow after Alex, to tend to him, to clean him up. But he's not allowed. Alex didn't say as much but it was clear in every line of his body- _don't follow me_.

So Miles doesn't. Instead, he puts in his earpiece and fields questions from the camera team about the nature of Alex's injuries. No doubt they're asking on behalf of David Turner, so Miles dodges the questions as best he can, not sure how Alex wants to play this.

Then he waits. He paces and thinks and tries to distract himself with books and telly but in the end that's all he's doing. Waiting.

At some point the rain stops, but the sun starts to rise on a cloudy, gloomy day anyway. For a while Miles watches from the patio as the gray waves lap at the sand, lets himself get lost in the rhythmic sound. Then, without actually making the conscious decision to, his feet are carrying him to the shore. He leaves his shoes behind. The feel of the sand between his toes is nice. Grounding. He stands at the shoreline and lets the water wash over his feet, looking out across an unfathomable distance.

He hears Alex before he sees him, just a split second before he turns up at Miles' side. He's clean now, no sign of the blood, but that black eye of his stands out starkly against his pale skin. He's got his sleeves pushed up and so many buttons undone that they're practically made pointless. His trousers are rolled up to his knees and for a while he watches the waves wash up to his ankles and then retreat.

When he finally looks at Miles, it hits Miles that he's always going to associate this- the beach, the sound of the waves, the smell of the sea- with Alex. There's no getting around it. Twenty years from now he'll stand on a beach and his mind will conjure up this image of Alex, bruise and all.

“I want you to stay,” Alex says.

The only thing Miles can think to say in response is, “Why?”

Alex smiles, a timid, lopsided thing. “I've decided I don't believe you.” He turns to fully face Miles, then, his feet making ripples in the water. “You're not a horrible person, Miles. I know better. And I still want you watching my back.” He moves closer still, and lowers his voice. Miles feels like a deer in headlights. “I'm a big believer in second chances.”

“Are you?” Miles asks, distracted. His eyes slip to Alex's lips and back again. Alex notices, he must, because his smile gets a little more self-assured.

“I am. I don't care about your past.” He takes Miles' hand between two of his own, holds it between them. His skin is soft and cool to the touch. “You'll stay, won't you?” he asks, looking up at Miles from under his lashes.

As if Miles could refuse him. As if he'd want to. “Of course.”

Alex's smile truly blooms then. He's still smiling when he takes Miles by the chin and pulls him into a kiss.

Miles is so shocked he doesn't kiss back, can't process it. Alex is kissing him. A few hours ago Miles wouldn't even have entertained this as a possibility and now it's happening and there are so many reasons it shouldn't be, so many reasons Miles should put a stop to it, but-

“You can kiss me back,” Alex says a little breathlessly. “No cameras out here. I know you want to, I've seen the way you look at me-”

And that's something else for Miles to worry about, the constant surveillance, but when Alex interrupts himself to kiss him again he decides it can wait. He brings his hands up to cup Alex's jaw and finally, _finally_ returns the kiss. Alex tastes like cigarette smoke and champagne and salt. His lips are chapped but it's hard not to notice how they fit against Miles' perfectly. Alex makes a lovely pleased little noise and nips lightly at Miles' lower lip but otherwise the kiss stays mostly chaste and gentle, as not long ago Alex's lip was split open and bleeding. Still, Miles can't resist drawing it out, stealing another peck or two once they separate, and relishing the way it makes Alex blush.

Miles swipes his thumbs over Alex's cheeks, drawing out another smile. He looks at Alex like he can hardly believe he's real. “What was that for?”

“Just wanted to,” Alex tells him. It's not much but... it's something.

Miles drops his hands, clears his throat. “I... I'll stay,” he says haltingly, trying to look stern. “But from now on, you can't worry about me. You've got to let me do my job, eh?”

Apparently Alex isn't quite ready to not be touching Miles. He grabs hold of his hands again, runs his thumbs over Miles' knuckles. “Alright, deal. Don't tell me dad about Jamie, yeah?”

“What's the story, then?”

“Dunno. Scrap with a nameless bloke, maybe. Just don't drag Jamie into it.”

“You said he'd get what he deserved,” Miles points out, confused.

Alex shakes his head. “He'd not have killed me. And he'd had more than a bit to drink already... I think he were being a prick, but he's my mate all the same, and now that I've had some time to think on it... Well, second chances, eh? Here's his.”

Miles smirks. “Feeling generous, laa?”

Helpless fondness seeps into Alex's expression as he looks up at Miles. “Aye. Maybe you've softened me up.”

Miles kisses him again, because it seems like Alex will let him. “Doubtful,” he murmurs against his lips.

Alex doesn't argue.


	7. Chapter 7

It starts with a chill.

At first, Miles ignores it, and he ignores Alex's worried glances. He gets through the end of his shift and heads back to his flat, but by the time he arrives his teeth are chattering, his skin is hot to the touch, and he wants nothing more than to fall face first into bed and stay there until he stops aching all over.

It doesn't quite work out like that. He does fall into bed, clothes half-shed and scattered about the room, but not even half an hour later, he finds himself dry heaving into the toilet bowl and silently thanking himself for forgetting to eat dinner.

He stays there for a while after his stomach settles, taking deep breaths, cheek pressed against the cool ceramic. The last time he got sick like this... Well, he was still at home, with his mum. She'd babied him, of course. Like any good mum she'd brought him medicine and crackers and swept his sweaty hair back from his face and told him, gently, that it was going to be okay. It feels like a lifetime ago. His mum belongs to a different world, or might as well. He can't even ring her, not without feeling guilty. All she does is serve as a reminder of all the nasty things he's done, all the lies he's had to tell. But, right now, he wants to call her anyway. A childish impulse, but one he can't help.

After one more deep breath, he struggles to his feet. He collapses once more into bed- there's no medicine in a cabinet for him to fetch, and no crackers or ginger ale either- and wraps himself up loosely in the blanket. It's shockingly easy to fall into sleep. A light, uneasy sleep with troubled dreams, interrupted by the occasional stumbling trip to the loo, but sleep nonetheless.

Eventually his alarm sounds and when he wakes, he finds himself sweaty, shaking, and barely capable of coherent thought. He shuts off his alarm, curses under his breath, and finds the wherewithal to get a message to Thomas. A simple _cover for me_ before he passes back into unconsciousness.

He dreams, this time, of Alex.

Night has fallen when he next opens his eyes, which means he's slept for a while uninterrupted, and he does feel moderately better, though his heart is racing, shot through with fear. At first he isn't sure why. It takes a moment for his scattered thoughts to come together, and then he realizes that the TV is on in the other room.

He keeps perfectly still and listens- for movement, for a voice, for some sign of who might be taking up space in his flat. But whoever it is makes no noise that Miles can hear. So he sits up, carefully, expecting the darkened room to spin around him. It doesn't, which is a relief, and he no longer feels feverish or nauseated. Only weakened.

It's no wonder. He checks his phone and discovers that it's nearly three in the morning. There are two texts from Alex, both from several hours ago, inquiring after his whereabouts and complaining about Thomas' presence, respectively. That's what tips Miles off, and his suspicions are confirmed when he gets uneasily to his feet, pads lightly over to the door, and spies Alex reclining on his settee, legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles. He looks grim faced, lost in thought. He's more staring through the telly than at it. He doesn't even notice Miles in the doorway, so Miles quietly retreats long enough to slip into a well-worn t-shirt and brush his teeth, hoping the act will make him feel something akin to human again. It helps, if only a little.

He means to announce himself, so he doesn't startle Alex, but finds he doesn't know what to say. Or, more accurately, what to say _first_. Instead, he places himself beside Alex on the settee and, when Alex's only response is to turn to him and break into a smile, Miles curls himself up and rests his head on Alex's lap.

Alex hesitates, watching him. Then he lowers his hand and cards it gently through Miles' hair. Miles closes his eyes, relieved at the touch.

“I were expecting a lecture,” Alex says, keeping his voice low. “You know, summat about how I shouldn't be here, I'm in danger, I need to go back...”

“You shouldn't be here,” Miles says, but it's half-hearted at best. True as it may be, Miles can't bring himself to care all that much at the moment. He hasn't got the energy, for one.

Alex chuckles and Miles can feel it. “It's alright, love,” he says. “Rest some more, if it helps.”

Miles doesn't need to be told twice. He hadn't intended to fall back asleep but something about having Alex there is immensely comforting and, despite the fact that his legs are far too long to stretch out along the settee, he's more comfortable than he had been in bed. It's not long before the soft sound of the telly and Alex's soothing gestures lull him back under.

He doesn't sleep long this time, but when he wakes- because Alex has started moving about the room- he feels more alert. More sensible. So, of course, the first words out of his mouth are, “You should go,” and this time he almost means them.

Alex looks back at him over his shoulder, a challenge in his eyes. “Make me.”

Miles can't, they both know it, so Miles watches in silence from the settee as Alex works his way through his kitchen, opening and closing every cabinet, scoffing at what he finds or doesn't find there. Miles has to marvel at how out of place he looks in his expensive, pristine threads against the backdrop of Miles' shabby, cluttered, mostly off-white flat. If it had been up to Miles, Alex never would've come here. Not least because it's dangerous, but also because it's more than a little embarrassing, the state of his living compared to Alex's. He feels the need to apologize for it but Alex turns to him before he can and says, frankly, “This place is a dump.”

“Er, yeah, it is,” Miles agrees, at a loss.

“You don't _like_ living here, do you?” Alex presses.

Miles frowns. “What do you think?”

Alex leans against the counter, folds his arms over his chest. Like he's bracing himself for... something. “So why do you stay?”

“They won't look for me here,” Miles says, mouth on autopilot.

Alex tilts his head. “Who?”

“Anyone.”

“Alright...” Alex concedes that point with a shrug of his shoulder. “But me dad's paying you pretty well, yeah? You could afford somewhere better now.”

“I've gotta save that money, Alex, cause after- after... Well, it's not permanent, is it? This gig.”

Alex doesn't answer. They both know it isn't.

“It weren't always like this,” Miles tells him as Alex slinks closer and finally resettles at the other end of the settee. His posture and nonchalance, feigned or not, gives him the air of royalty. It's both irritating and alluring and Miles isn't daft enough to point it out. “Back when I were working I was well off. Like, really fucking well off. I was living in the lap of luxury, and I still had money left over to put back.”

“So what happened?” He sounds genuinely interested. This isn't something they normally do, this talking about pasts. But since the charity ball a few days ago it would seem the floodgates have, if not opened, then at least sprung a leak. 

“Mostly I used it to buy me way out of service. A bribe here and there, paying off old debts all at once. Blew through me savings in no time. I wanted to try and make it so no one would have a reason to look for me.”

“Did it work?”

“I'm working for your dad now, so... no. Not really. Guess there'll always be people wanting me to go back to it.”

Alex doesn't say anything. He just watches Miles, gaze roaming his face, dipping to his lips, then his chest, then his hands, then rising back to his eyes. Miles often wishes he knew what was going on in Alex's head but, as usual, he can't even fathom a guess.

Finally Alex moves. He raises a hand, traces two fingers along the side of Miles' face, moving his hair away from his eyes. The touch is gentle, caring. Miles leans into it, still watching Alex curiously. They haven't talked about that kiss they shared, and they definitely haven't repeated it. Haven't had the chance, really. Miles could almost write it off as a dream, except he can remember it all in such vivid detail. The sound and smell of the ocean, the taste of Alex, and the feel of him beneath his hands.

“Let me put you up somewhere, then,” Alex says abruptly, dropping his hand.

It takes Miles a moment to process what he's said, then, “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not? 'S not like I can't afford it.”

“I'm not some fucking charity case, Al.”

Alex rolls his eyes, like Miles is being a difficult child. “You don't want me to spend money on you? Fine. How about you stay in me townhouse. You know the one. It's being paid for whether it's used or not.”

“ _No_ ,” Miles insists.

Alex is very used to getting his way. Sometimes that's an easy tidbit to forget but sometimes it shows. Like now, as his eyes narrow into what could almost be described as a glare- like he can _glare_ Miles into submission, which is laughable- and he snaps, “Why not?”

Miles doesn't consciously want to put distance between them but his body does it anyway, acting on instinct. He stands and walks to the sink. He braces himself on the counter and looks out the window, at the city streets laid out below. “I don't need to be looked after,” he says eventually. “And I won't be in debt to you.”

Silence is the answer, and it stretches on for several seconds. Then, footsteps, and Miles startles when Alex wraps his arms around him from behind, one palm flat against Miles' chest and the other flat against his stomach. He hooks his chin over Miles' shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” he says softly. “I didn't mean to- we shouldn't argue.”

Miles turns around in his embrace. He finds nothing on Alex's face but sincerity. “It's fine,” he says, and finds that he means it.

“How are you feeling?” Alex murmurs, hands falling to Miles' hips, genuine concern shining through.

It's strange, Miles thinks, how natural this feels. How naturally and fluidly they invade each others space. “Hungry,” Miles replies honestly, after a moment of reflection.

“I'll fetch us something, if you like.” Alex is already backing off, headed towards the door.

“No, Alex, you can't go out alone, are you daft-?”

Alex scoffs. “I'll be fine. It's just right around the corner, yeah? And no one knows I'm here.” 

“It's bloody- four in the morning, stop-”

Alex pauses, hand on the door knob. “Let me do this for you,” he says.

Miles can't give his consent, not when Alex risks his life just by going out in public, but Alex takes his silence for approval anyway and is gone before Miles can make another attempt to stop him.

Miles showers while he's gone and worries the entire time, but Alex does come back. With scones and coffees, and they sit at Miles' fold-out kitchen table and talk until it's time for Alex to go.

Miles finds it hard to stop smiling.

-

Miles is in an uncharacteristically good mood when he turns up for his next shift. Alex's house- mansion, really- is becoming more and more familiar and, thus, more and more comfortable. Alex seems to think of it as a lavish prison but Miles looks forward to coming here. However temporary, there's now a strange sense of belonging attached to the place. Part of that, Miles knows, is due to Alex himself.

His good mood doesn't last long, though. It goes out with a bang when he rounds the corner and finds Alex talking with some bloke- and at first Miles doesn't even register why it puts him on edge, but then his hand closes on his gun and, before he draws, it clicks. Miles never got a good look at his face but he'd be willing to bet money that the guy Alex is sat chatting so amiably with is Jamie. He's got the same build, the same posture, as the bloke Miles saw standing over Alex in that alley.

“What's going on?” Miles asks, cutting into their conversation, fingers still curled around the handle of his gun. But he doesn't draw. Alex doesn't seem to be in all that much trouble.

“Miles, Jamie,” Alex says, gesturing lazily between them.

“What's he doing here, Alex?” Miles asks, watching Jamie suspiciously. There are beer bottles scattered on the table between them.

“Apologizing. Eh, Cookie?”

There's a flush to Jamie's cheeks that could be drink, could be shame, could be anger, could be natural. He nods, agreement, but there's a defiance in his eyes. Still, Miles relaxes. Lets his hand fall to his side. “You should go.”

“Just on me way out,” Jamie agrees, looking like he'd like to hang around with Miles about as much as Miles would like to hang around with him. He doesn't actually knock into Miles on his way out, but it's a close thing. Alex follows him, walks him to the door like a good host. Miles lingers behind, listens as Alex laughs at something Jamie says under his breath and they bid each other an easy, amicable farewell. It's baffling.

“Care to tell me what that was all about?” Miles asks when Alex reappears and he knows his tone is brusk, verging on irritated. Predictably, Alex picks up on it and mirrors it in his reply.

“Not really any of your business,” he snaps. “But it's just what I said- he were here to make amends.”

“Where's Michael?” Miles asks, for the first time noting his absence. “Alex, you can't just-”

“Fuck's sake, I'm so bloody sick of hearing about what I can't do,” Alex complains. “It's a thing with me and Jamie, yeah? We rile each other up, screw each other over, take it out of each others hides, then we make up. 'S always been like that.”

There's a pause, the slightest hesitation, and then the question is slipping off Miles' tongue, an accident, sounding just this side of disgusted, “Are you still fucking him?”

The anger flits across Alex's features and then disappears. Gives way to understanding. He takes a single step in Miles' direction, stops. His fingers twitch at his side like he wants to reach out. But, of course, he can't. They only have the illusion of being alone. “No,” he says simply. “I've got other plans.”

Miles hums, a questioning noise. He can hear his own heartbeat. This thing with Alex is dangerous. Whatever game they're playing. He feels it keenly.

Alex tilts his head, considering. Then, just loud enough to be heard, answering the unspoken question, “You,” like Miles should've guessed it. He did, truthfully, but it's something else to hear it said.

“I- I don't have to worry about Jamie, then?” Miles asks, stumbling over the words. He's not sure which sense he means it in but he gets the feeling Alex's answer would be the same either way. A shrug and a shake of the head. It's more reassuring than it ought to be.


	8. Chapter 8

The light is early-morning gray when Miles leaves his book and goes looking for Alex. The other lad has been asleep for the majority of Miles' shift, but when Miles checks his room he finds an empty bed, covers tossed about, and the balcony doors thrown open. Through them, he spots a small figure on the beach, too far away to be anything but a vague silhouette. But there's no question who it is. Only one person would walk the grounds so freely.

Miles finds him reading. He approaches quietly, sand sifting through his toes, until he's at Alex's side. Alex gestures for him to sit down. They're sitting just out of the reach of the waves. Close enough that if Miles stretched out his legs, the water would touch his toes.

“Nice morning, isn't it?” Alex says absently. His gaze is fixed on an empty spot across the ocean, his finger between the pages of his book.

Miles privately thinks it's rather gloomy. With no sun to light them up, the waves and sand look gray, drained of color. The entire world looks gray, and it feels smaller somehow. Like he and Alex are the only two people on the planet, at least for the next five minutes. But maybe that's what Alex likes about it.

“You know,” Alex starts, still staring blankly ahead. “I used to be scared of the ocean.”

“Did you?” Miles asks, surprised.

The sound of Miles' voice snaps Alex out of his reverie. He turns to him and smiles, a self-deprecating edge to it. “Yeah. Proper afraid. Scared of sharks and crabs and drowning. I'd never come closer than the patio.”

“What changed?”

“Nothing, really. Still don't like to go in, me. But me mum loved it so much... She used to spend every free second out here. She used to say it were good for her, the ocean air and the sunlight. She always tried to get me to go with her but I'd just watch.” He pauses, eyes going distant again. “She were so happy when we first moved here. 'It'll be right on the beach,' she told me when dad broke the news, smiling like- like...”

Miles reaches out, rests his fingertips along the curve of Alex's knee. “What happened to her, Alex?”

Alex opens his mouth, closes it again. Struggling with himself. Perhaps wondering if he should divulge the truth, or even broach the topic at all. Finally, he shakes his head, and it doesn't sound like a lie when he admits, frustrated, “I don't know.” He adds, seemingly a tangent, “He tried to get rid of her stuff. Dad did, I mean. Told 'em to throw it away, burn it, just get rid of it. Weren't two days after the funeral. I dunno if he were grief stricken or- or something else. But I couldn't stand it. So I took some things. Small things. Little trinkets and keepsakes. And I hid them.”

“In the shed,” Miles realizes, glancing to where it sits at the edge of the property.

Alex nods. “He never goes in there. Never really comes here at all, actually.” He shrugs, looking sheepish. “It were stupid, I know.”

“It wasn't,” Miles argues. He can't picture Alex as he must have been then- young, scared, sad. He doesn't want to, either. Yet another sign that he's gotten himself into trouble, that the idea of anything upsetting Alex is, in turn, upsetting to him. His fondness for Alex sometimes feels like a physical thing, like a weight on his shoulders or something sharp in his chest. At times, like now, the scope of it takes him by surprise, leaves him breathless. Can Alex see it on his face? This growing fondness? Can he sense it? Part of Miles hopes that he can. It would spare him having to put it into words.

“Miles,” Alex says softly, watching him, head tilted curiously to the side.

In answer, Miles draws Alex to him by the front of his shirt, splays his fingers along Alex's jaw, and kisses him. Alex gasps into it, taken by surprise. Miles relishes the noise, the fact that he was able to surprise Alex, and smiles into the kiss. Alex's hands come up to grip Mile's arms, holding him firmly in place, like he's afraid Miles will vanish if he lets go. But he's smiling too when they separate- and looking rather pleased with himself.

“Just so we're clear,” he says, voice low. “You've my permission to kiss me whenever you please.” He adds, as if sensing the protest on the tip of Miles' tongue, “Witnesses be damned.”

It's a nice thought. Right now, when they're alone, on the beach, away from the world, it almost seems possible. So Miles bites his tongue, lets Alex bask in the idea while he can.

-

“- fucking get it done or I'll find someone who will!”

Alex doesn't so much hang up as he does throw his phone across the room. It bounces harmlessly off the carpet. Miles raises both eyebrows.

“Not a word,” Alex mutters darkly when he spots Miles in the doorway. Miles has just traded off with Thomas for his shift and it would seem he came in on the tail end of a business conversation. And Miles has learned in his months on the job that Alex's business conversations almost always involve yelling or, at the very least, not-so-veiled threats. Alex is careful not to conduct too much _business_ in front of the help (ie, Miles) but sometimes it can't be avoided. Things get overheard, Miles walks in at just the wrong moment... Still, the language used is so coded Miles couldn't make heads or tales of anything he manages to hear anyway. Not that he's trying. The less he knows, the better.

Alex fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and places it between his lips- but he doesn't light it. Not yet, anyway. Instead he elbows his way past Miles, out the door, and calls behind him on his way down the stairs, “We're going to a pub!”

That spurs Miles into action. He catches up to Alex, takes him by the elbow. Alex rolls the cigarette between his fingertips. His look is dark, angry, a far cry from the Alex of yesterday. But his gaze softens somewhat when Miles lets go of him and says, gently, “Alex, you know we can't. Too dangerous.”

“Too dangerous my arse,” Alex snaps, rolling his eyes. He starts to move again, only to once again be stalled by Miles' touch, this time to his shoulder.

“Are you _trying_ to get me killed? Your dad finds out I let you out of the house and that's me fucking head.”

Alex hesitates. Then he shrugs Miles off. “I'm going with or without you, love, so you might as well tag along.”

Miles watches him walk away. “Shit,” he says succinctly. Then he follows.

-

Alex directs Richard to a pub that's nicely out the way and mostly empty. Still, Miles feels like a hunted animal. He insists they take a corner booth and positions himself so he can watch the door. Alex, on the other hand, acts as if he owns the place. Hell, maybe he does. He treats the barkeep like hired help, at any rate. He calmed down on the ride over so that now he's loose, languid. Utterly unconcerned. Miles likes to entertain the idea that Alex is only so relaxed because he's present. Would he let his guard down so much if he didn't trust Miles to protect him? Of course Miles can never know for sure but he'd prefer to believe that he wouldn't. 

Alex insists that he'll be paying for everything, which Miles grumbles about until Alex promises to let him foot the bill next time. It's the notion of there being a _next time_ that shuts Miles up.

They've been there for nearly an hour when the three blokes walk in. There's nothing particularly noteworthy about them, Miles just notices them the same way he notices everyone that steps through the door. But then they spot Miles, and Alex, and something about their little groups demeanor shifts. They start casting glances at Miles and Alex, eyes narrowed, bending their heads together to whisper to one another. It sets Miles on edge. 

He doesn't alert Alex, worried that he's wrong. Imagining things. Overreacting to what could be simple curiosity. But twenty minutes later, Alex excuses himself to the loo. Miles expects the blokes to try to follow him if they are indeed up to anything but instead, once Alex is out of the room, they approach Miles. All three of them at once, the tallest in the front. The leader, Miles presumes. They all look down their noses at him, unsmiling.

“Can I help you lads?” Miles politely asks, tone light. He rather wishes he'd stood up to meet them so they couldn't loom over him like they are. He feels at a disadvantage. Being so outnumbered doesn't help that feeling in the slightest.

“I've seen you before,” says the leader. He stands rigid, alert, but speaks with a lazy drawl. “Kane, right? Miles Kane?”

Miles shakes his head. “Never heard of him.” The lie comes easy. Miles has gotten good at that over the years, lying. It's an art form.

Doesn't seem to matter now, though. Before Miles can react, the bloke has him by his collar. He draws him up, out of the booth in one motion, knocking over a pint in the process. The beer forms a puddle on the floor and seeps over onto Miles' shoes. “Don't lie to me,” the bloke hisses, too close for comfort. “I know who you are. And I know you've been hidin' from our boss. You owe him and it's time to pay up.”

Miles looks past him, at the one other patron and the barkeep. They're both standing frozen, watching the scene before them with wide eyes. Neither of them tries to protest on his behalf.

“Bullshit,” Miles says, all too aware of how much bigger this guy is than him. “I don't owe anyone anything. I'm paid up.”

Miles sees the punch coming and raises his hands to block just a second to late. He's been punched in the face enough times that it doesn't rattle him like it used to. Still, the coppery taste of blood from a newly split lip is never pleasant, and he's still reeling from the first one when another punch lands on his stomach. Hard enough that he'd double over if he weren't being held upright.

“I swear,” Miles tries, speaking quickly, winded. He can see red on the guy's knuckles. “I dunno who your boss is, but-”

“You'll find out soon enough,” the guy snaps, and lands another blow. Trying to knock Miles unconscious, perhaps, but not quite managing it. Miles feels something _crunch_ in his nose, staggers backwards, wrenching himself out of the bloke's grasp, only to be grabbed by one of his goons from behind. The tall one, the leader, raises a fist yet again. Miles spits blood at him, the only act of defiance left to him, and braces himself for the next blow. But it doesn't come. Instead, he's saved by a familiar voice.

“Let him go,” Alex says, cold. Angry. “Right now.”

“Who the fuck are you?” asks one of the goons- but the leader knows. He looks properly spooked.

“Turner,” he says, surprised. “This guy one of yours?”

“He is,” Alex confirms. “So get your fucking hands off him.”

There's a pause where it seems like maybe the bloke will protest. Then he waves a hand and Miles is released. He stumbles, dizzy and hurting, before he gets his footing.

“I'll be havin' a word with my boss about you,” the bloke promises Miles, voice low, but when Alex orders them to leave- they leave. Heads held high, attempting to keep their dignity intact, but at least they leave. It's not until they're gone that Miles sits down heavily, breaths coming faster than they should. He closes his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart.

Alex kneels in front of him, hands gripping Miles' knees. “You alright, love? You're- you're bleeding.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Miles replies, not unkindly.

Alex takes it in stride. “Let's get you back to the house, eh?”

Miles allows Alex to help him up and leans heavily on him, Alex's arm around his waist. He's fine, he is, just a little shell shocked. Of all the possible outcomes for tonight, he'd never predicted this one. He and Alex's roles, it would seem, have been reversed.

Alex leaves the barkeep and the patron with two hundred dollars and tells them in a menacing voice that they _didn't see anything _, which is so cliché and cartoonish that Miles actually laughs.__

__-_ _

__“Up,” Alex directs, gesturing for Miles to sit on the counter. They've commandeered the downstairs bathroom for first aid, which Alex had insisted on administering himself._ _

__“It's my fault,” he'd said, and Miles' protestations to the contrary had rolled right off his back._ _

__Like every other room in the house, the bathroom is lavish. The sort of room Miles feels bad about even _being_ in, much less _bleeding_ in. Everything is white- the marble floors, the counter tops, the claw foot tub, the walls, the rug, the decorations. A single drop of blood falls from Miles' chin and hits the floor. The red provides a stark contrast._ _

__“I thought it'd be you,” Miles says. “I thought you'd be the target.”_ _

__Alex stands between his legs, takes his chin in one hand and starts to clean him up. Wipes the blood from his face, being overly gentle. The cool cloth feels good against his skin._ _

__“Kind of funny, in a way,” Miles goes on. “That I'd be the one to get jumped.”_ _

__“It's not funny,” Alex argues, and indeed he sounds humorless._ _

__“Ironic, then?” Miles tries._ _

__Alex shakes his head. “I'll find out who they work for,” he vows. Miles can practically hear the gears in his head turning._ _

__“And then what?”_ _

__“And then I make them suffer.” So detached, so matter-of-fact._ _

__Miles takes Alex's wrists, stilling him. He catches Alex's gaze. “No, Alex. No seeking bloody revenge on my behalf.”_ _

__Alex pulls out of his hold and looks away. “They're dead men, Miles. For this, they're dead men.”_ _

__Miles offers up no further protest as Alex goes back to tending to him. Later, he will. After the events of tonight have faded into memory. He'll broach the topic again and talk Alex down. Now, though, best to let it lie. He can tell that Alex won't be swayed._ _

__“I don't think it's broken,” Alex says a moment later._ _

__Miles touches his nose. It's tender but- no, it doesn't feel broken. “Good. I were already ugly enough, eh?”_ _

__The corner of Alex's mouth twitches up. “I'm afraid we'll have to disagree on that.”_ _

__“Flatterer.”_ _

__When Alex looks at him then, Miles sees some of his own fondness reflected there. “I don't like seeing you bloodied,” he admits like it's a secret, stepping even closer._ _

__Miles locks his ankles behind Alex's back, holding him there. He leans down, smiling. “Nor I you.”_ _

__Alex kisses him. Gently, carefully, one hand cool against Miles' chest and the other sliding into his hair. When they part, Miles rests his forehead on Alex's shoulder and Alex draws his fingers up and down Miles' spine, soothing._ _

__“Don't let it happen again, alright? That's an order.”_ _

__Miles huffs a laugh. “Yes, sir.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://www.dontcareajot.tumblr.com)


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